PREVIEW

There are four narrators in Ghosts of Birch Lake. Below is a representative chapter from each.

 

Don, circa 1936

 

My old man up and disappeared one day when I was just a little shaver, maybe six or seven. At first my ma told us he went to the Twin Cities to look for work. Later on she said nothing panned out there, so he went out west. As soon as he got situated, why, he’d send for us lickety split. But she never seemed to know for sure where he was at. One time she might say Denver, another time Phoenix, another time Los Angeles. I figured it must be exciting for him to see all them different places. I kept on asking what she heard from him and when was he going to send for us, and she never really give me a straight answer.    

     My sister Rosemary is a couple years older than me and has more sense. She clues me in to lots of things I wouldn’t figure out on my own. One day she says to me, “You don’t know much, do you? Don’t you think it’s weird that we haven’t seen no letters or postcards or nothing from Pa? Why, Mother don’t have no more idea where he is than the man in the moon.” I ran to Ma bawling and told her what Rose said. She didn’t say nothing one way or the other, just sent Rose to bed without supper.

     After that I didn’t hardly ask Ma about it no more, and she didn’t bring it up neither. But one time I overheard her tell a neighbor lady Pa just got swallowed up by the Depression.

     Ma does the best she can for us. She has a regular job, thank God, running the cash register at the Woolworth’s in town. But it don’t pay nowhere near enough to support herself and two kids. She offers to take in washing and ironing for people who come through there, but she don’t get many takers because most people, even if they want to give her the work, they can’t afford to pay her nothing anyways.

     Well sir, she started taking on whatever she could get. For example an old person who was drooling and shitting theirself and didn’t have no idea where they was at, Ma would go over and feed ’em, read to ’em, give ’em a bath, launder their undies and whatnot. She might get a couple bucks for a week of that.

     You can bet your buttonhole I seen what my ma was doing to herself. I might of been dumb, but not too dumb to know I had to start helping out some way or other. I was maybe eleven or twelve by then. After school, weekends, and all summer long I rode my bike around looking for odd jobs. I didn’t care what it was. I’d do it for a dime or fifteen cents. Maybe a quarter for a real big job.

     That’s how I got in at Larry’s Resort. I’d go ahead and do the work and let the other fellow figure out how much it was worth. That suited Larry just fine. He became my best customer in no time flat. He has me mow the grass, pull weeds, rake leaves, bust up beehives, sweep the floors, bait the mousetraps, dig up nightcrawlers so he can sell ’em, bail out the rowboats after it rains, anything you can think of.

     Larry is a crusty old bastard, if you want to know the truth. He’ll give me a good smack once in a while, even since I got a little older and am pretty near as big as him. Not too many people know this, but his name is really Lars. That’s what his wife Eloise calls him. They both come over from Sweden. He goes by Larry because he figures it sounds more American.

     You know, I never figured out why in hell people would drive seven or eight hours to get here on purpose. I guess the lake is nice enough, but if you live in Chicago or Milwaukee or someplace wouldn’t there be plenty of other lakes you could go to closer to home and save yourself the drive? You could go to Lake Michigan anyways if you couldn’t think of nothing else. Now at least you’re talking about a real lake and not one you can practically spit acrossed.

     One of the first jobs Larry give me, Eloise was waddling down to the beach for a swim one day when she stepped smack on a pine cone barefooted. You’d of thought somebody was murdering her, the way she carried on. Larry made me go around the whole grounds and pick up every last pine cone and toss ’em in the woods. Not just around the house and the cabins, but back behind the garage and down by the boat landing and every inch of the whole layout. I picked up hunnerds of them damn pine cones. Maybe thousands. Too bad I couldn’t find nobody to buy ’em off of me to make Christmas ornaments or something.

     After while I was putting in so many hours at Larry’s I didn’t hardly need to look for no other odd jobs. So I have to admit that worked out pretty good. Lots of stuff Larry makes me do is pointless, but he’s paying for it so who in hell am I to kick? Now and then he’ll surprise me by giving me something interesting to do. 

 

How I got to be friends with Jack, well, his folks rent a cabin at Larry’s every year. I’m always around, so me and Jack would say hiya or wave to each other, and that was about it for a while. Larry has a rule that the help shouldn’t mix with the guests. That’s just one more thing about Larry that would make you want to crack him across the puss with a two by four. You could make a pretty long list, starting off with the way he always jingle-jangles the change in his pocket while he’s talking to you. I bet he don’t even know he’s doing it. Man, that’ll drive you nuts. That and a hunnerd other things.

     Anyways, when Larry says the help he can’t mean none other than me. After all, there isn’t nobody else working for him. So even after I get done for the day, I ain’t allowed to go swimming or play ball with kids my own age who are staying there. I guess that’s just Larry’s way of reminding me I don’t belong with these kind of people, in case I might of forgot.

     This one day my job was to go from one end of the place to the other and destroy all the ant hills. Not to mention gopher holes if I come acrossed any. A typical project. Larry said if you just stomp on an ant hill or pee on it or pound it down with the back of your shovel, they’ll have it built up again by lunch time. So each ant hill I found, I was spose to pour a bucket of boiling water on it, chop it all up with the shovel, and then smooth it out with a rake. Then later on I was spose to come back and put grass seed and water it.

     Larry set up this big kettle of water over a fire. I used a ladle to put the water in the bucket. I had a big thick glove on so I didn’t burn my hand. It was a pretty hard job because a bucket full of water is pretty damn heavy no matter if it’s boiling or not. If it is boiling, the steam comes up your arm and the handle of the bucket is pretty near burning through your glove. And let’s not forget most of these ant hills wasn’t nowhere near the kettle.

     Anyways, I was coming back with another bucket of water when Jack come up alongside of me. “Hey listen,” he says. “I’ve been wondering. Do you go to church every Sunday?”

     “Sure do.”

     “I thought so, because you look like a pretty holy fellow.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Why, your shirt is holey, your pants are holey, and your shoes are holey. I bet your underwear’s even holey.” He giggled. You could tell he was awful proud of himself.

     I felt my face turning red. “So funny I forgot to laugh,” I says. “I hope it was worth your while coming all the way over here to tell me that.”

     Then Jack frowned, and all of a sudden I was afraid I hurt his feelings. Aint that strange? After all, he was the one who started it.   

     “Maybe it wasn’t that funny anyhow,” he says. “Well, either way, when you’re done with your chores, you want to play some catch?”

     “I don’t know,” I says. “I’m not spose to.”

     “How come?”

     “Just not spose to. Larry won’t let me.” I wanted Jack to know I wished I could. Just to make sure, I says, “Thanks for the offer, though.”

     “Okay,” Jack says. “See you in the funny papers.” Then he went on about his business.

     Maybe ten or fifteen minutes later, I was back by the garage getting more water when I seen Jack’s ma go up to Larry’s house and ring the doorbell. Larry come and pushed the screen door halfway open. They talked a while. Then Jack’s ma come over to me and asked would I mind joining the family for a little picnic later on, unless I had other plans. “I already checked with Mr. Larry,” she says, “and he agreed it would be all right.”

     What a hell of a thing. I couldn’t believe it.

     I never had nobody go out of their way for me like that before. I really didn’t know what to think at first. I wondered if maybe they was just fooling—but they wasn’t. When the time come I went over there and we had hot dogs, potato salad, watermelon, and pop. After we ate, me and Jack played catch for a while. I didn’t have no mitt, so Jack’s pa borrowed me his. We played with a regular league ball, a nice new one. I don’t think I ever seen a new one before. Jack was way better than me, but I could at least catch the ball most of the time and throw it back to him without bouncing it.

     While we was at it, Jack’s ma come out and says, “How would you boys like some mores?”

     I didn’t know what she was talking about. “No thanks,” I says. “I already had plenty of supper.”

     Well, you’d think that was the funniest thing Jack ever heard of. He pretty near busted a gut. “Plenty of supper,” he says. “That’s a hot one.”

     “Jack,” his ma says. “Be nice.”

     Then Jack says to me, “Don’t you know what some mores are?”

     “Afraid not,” I says.

     So that was the night I found out some mores means a Hershey bar and marshmallow and graham cracker sandwich. I never heard of it before. After I had one, which was pretty good, Jack’s ma give me another one. “Now you know why they call them some mores,” she says. “Because as soon as you try one, you want some more.”

    

From then on Jack and his folks included me in lots of things they was up to. They always asked Larry first, and he always made me finish my work before I could go. Sometimes he dreamed up a little extra chore to kill another half hour or forty-five minutes. And even after that, he acted like he was being put out when it come time for me to knock off.

     Mr. Weber had an idea for getting around that so they could take me fishing. He asked what time I was spose to start in the morning. I said nine o’clock, give or take. “Well that’s fine,” he says, “because we can have you back from fishing by then. We go out at the crack of dawn.”

     Who in hell am I to these people that they would bend over backwards for me? I can’t understand it.

     I went out fishing with Jack and Mr. Weber a few times. Even though I lived my whole life a stone’s throw from the lake, I never learned how to fish before. They showed me the ropes and they didn’t make fun of me when I screwed up. One day I caught a pretty nice walleye. Mr. Weber took my picture holding up the fish. Later on he mailed it to me.

     When their week was up and they was packing the car to go home, I went to give Mr. Weber his baseball glove back. “Why don’t you go ahead and keep it?” he says.

     I guess that goes to show you the kinda guy he is.

     And to show you what kinda guy Larry is, he give me a good going over after Jack and his folks left. Said I was putting on airs, whatever that means.

​

​

​

Jeannie, 1941

​

I never woulda met Jack if I wasn’t working at the A&W.

     I guess you wouldn’t be shocked if I told you there isn’t a whole lot to do in the evenings around here. There’s the movie theater, and that’s about it. If they have a picture you already saw or one you don’t care to see, you’re pretty much out of luck. There really isn’t anyplace else to go unless you just go over to a friend’s house to play cards or listen to the radio or whatever. So we were all very excited when we heard the A&W was opening up.

     At first I thought it would just be a place to go once in a while to break up the regular routine, but then my friend April said she got hired to work there. She said I should put my name in too. So I did, and sure enough I got hired. I’m sixteen, which is just barely old enough.

     The A&W is a drive-in, which is a big novelty. The customers stay in their cars and we take their orders and then bring the stuff back to them on a tray. They call us tray girls, or carhops.

     We have a uniform with a brown short-sleeve dress and a short pleated skirt, and an orange apron in the front, and short white ankle socks and white-and-brown saddle shoes. Plus a little orange hat, which we hate. I guess you’d call it a bonnet instead of a hat, I don’t know. It’s open in the back and we have to pull our hair through this thing.

     The first night, we hardly moved our heads for fear these darn bonnets would fall off. It reminded me of how they made us walk with a stack of books on our head in school to improve our posture. The next night we got the idea to pin the bonnet to our hair to keep it on. And the night after that, we got the idea not to wear the bonnets at all. We girls got together and agreed we’d just forget to bring them when we came to work.

     Unfortunately that didn’t go over with our boss, Mr. Herman. He didn’t notice right away when we stopped wearing the bonnets, but as soon as he did he made us put them on again. He said he could see that we needed to have the whole idea of a uniform explained to us. Then he went ahead and did that. We went along with that all right, but he should’ve quit while he was ahead. “You know when you go in a nice hotel?” he said. “What does the bellhop wear?”

     I bet there wasn’t a one of us girls who ever set foot in a nice hotel. At least nobody that would admit it—because they wouldn’t have been there as a customer, if you know what I mean.

     “I’ll tell you.” He answered his own question. “The bellhop wears a little hat as a sign of respect for his guests. And likewise, so do you. Bellhop, carhop. It’s the same thing, see?”

     We just looked at him and then at each other. Nobody said anything.

     “Bellhop, carhop,” Mr. Herman repeated. You could tell he thought he was really onto something. “Both have the same job. To hop to it whenever the guest needs something.”

     April laughed out loud, and in the process she actually snorted. This is a habit of hers that she hates but I find very lovable. Anyways, that was the end of the meeting.

 

April is such a card. We aren’t allowed to chew gum on the job, so naturally that’s just what she does every single night. She’ll go up to Mr. Herman to ask some silly question, allowing him to show off his expertise on something or other, and she’ll be chomping on a huge wad of bubble gum the whole time. She makes a game out of it, to see how long it’ll take him to notice. If he doesn’t notice after a few minutes, she’ll go ahead and blow a giant bubble practically right in his face. Then he’ll say, “And what is our policy with regard to gum chewing?” The same thing every time, just like clockwork.

     Mr. Herman will stick his hand out for April to put the gum in, and while she’s giving it to him with one hand she’ll be reaching in her pocket with the other for more gum. This happens at least once or twice a shift. It never dawns on Mr. Herman that April is pulling his leg. The funniest part is I don’t think she even likes chewing gum to start with, because I never saw her do it anyplace else except at work. I think she only does it because they told her not to. If they told her to go ahead and chew all the gum you want, well, there wouldn’t be any fun in that.

     Aside from the little bonnets, the uniforms aren’t so bad. At least we don’t have to go around on roller skates, like I hear some of the other drive-in places make the girls do. What a darn good way to break your neck. Truth be told, our uniforms are quite flattering if you have a certain kind of figure. We were only open a week or so when one of the fellas back in the kitchen mentioned something interesting. “Did you gals all get poured out of the same mold?” this guy Phil said.

     “What do you mean?” I asked.

     “Oh come on,” he said. “Look at yourselves.”

     April made a face at me like, How can you be so dumb? And then I realized. All of us girls are sort of tall, blonde or blondish, and not necessarily top-heavy, but what you might call curvy. Myself included. This Mr. Herman is just a little squirt, maybe five-seven and 140 pounds soaking wet, with dark hair plastered down and glasses and a little mustache that isn’t filled in all the way. One of these German or Norwegian girls from the farm would practically snap him in two. I mean if it ever came down to it, which isn’t too likely.

     “I guess Herman knows what he likes,” Phil said.

     “Well, the feeling isn’t mutual,” April said. “I can promise you that.”

     “You don’t need to get offended,” Phil said. “Anyways, it’s good for business.”

     April blew a giant pink bubble and snapped it loudly against the roof of her mouth. “If that perv ever tries anything with me, I’ll knee him right in the nut sack. I’m not fooling.”

     You can learn a lot from April. I never heard of a nut sack before, but you can figure out what it means if you give it some thought.

    

Working at the A&W is pretty neat. People came from all over the first few weeks just to see it. Most of our business is in the early evening, especially families with kids or maybe an old grandma and grandpa who want to get out of the house for a change. After dark we get the people in their teens and twenties who are just looking for something to do. The lights are so bright, you can see the glow in the sky from miles away. I always imagine the people are being drawn to the light just like moths.

     The job is a little harder than you might think, especially when we have to squeeze between the parked cars with a loaded tray. These frosty root beer mugs we have are big and very heavy. If you’ve got three or four of them at a time, you have to watch yourself. But no matter how careful you are, you can’t help dumping your tray every now and then. When that happens, of course the smart-alecky ones in the crowd will cheer and even honk their horns. Obviously you want to crawl into a hole at that point, but you just have to grin and bear it.

     One time I slipped on something and when I went to catch myself I dumped a full tray right on the hood of this fella’s car. He was an older man, maybe fifty-five or sixty. He got out of the car and cursed me out. I mean actually using swear words. In front of his wife! And then he ran his hand all up and down the hood to make sure there weren’t any dents. My heart was pounding for fear I’d be fired if he found something. So now you know how green I was. Here I was apologizing, when he was the one who was out of line, flying off the handle like he did. I can tell you April wouldn’t have apologized. She might’ve cracked him over the head with one of the frosty mugs. Now that would’ve made a dent.

     Most of the customers are pretty nice, though. It’s great having a job where you can be outside and see lots of different people. Some kids I know from school come in, or people from the neighborhood, friends of my folks and that. It’s nice to see familiar faces. Plus you can meet new people too. Especially fellas. April says that’s the best thing about it. “Why else would you want to work here,” she says, “if not to meet some cute guys?” She always seems to end up with the carloads of guys who are sort of loud and rowdy. Mostly they’re harmless, just showing off. April takes all the wisecracks and lewd suggestions and gives it right back. It doesn’t faze her any. She enjoys it. Myself, I’m usually on the lookout for a quieter type of fella.

     I’ll never forget one time I was in the bathroom looking over my shoulder into the mirror, you know, to see how my rear end looked in the skirt. Well, April came in just then and caught me at it. Oh my gosh, did she get a good laugh out of that one. I thought she was gonna pee her apron. Ever since then whenever she’s walking a few steps in front of me she’ll say, “How does my butt look?”

 

Like I say, it was sort of random how I met Jack. Him and his friend Don came in one night in a pretty nice car. A light blue Buick, pretty new from the looks of it. I guess it was just pure luck they parked in my station.

     Do you want to know the date? It was Monday, August 4, 1941. I wrote it down.

     Don was driving, so I assumed it was his car. Or more likely his dad’s. Don introduced himself and Jack. Then he started in trying to make small talk. He isn’t the most handsome fella, the poor thing, but he’s a good one for jokes and puns and that. For one example, he said he’d gladly give his left arm to be ambidextrous. He was sort of entertaining, so I played along. They also had Illinois plates, and Illinois people are supposed to be big tippers.

     Jack didn’t open his mouth. He just sat there looking mysterious. So of course he was the one I was interested in. Well, his looks didn’t hurt any. I mean as far as I could tell there in the shadows.

     So here’s the thing. When Don introduced Jack, he said he was his friend. Not his brother. So then I knew the car didn’t belong to the both of them. It had to be one or the other. Since Don was driving, I figured it belonged to him, or his family anyways. But then a little later Don said he was a local guy and Jack was from Chicago. The idea of Jack being from Chicago made him even more interesting to me. I’ve never been to Chicago and I want to know all about it.

     After the guys finished their hot dogs and root beer, I went back to pick up the tray and give them their check. “You know,” Don said, “we can’t agree on the color of your eyes. Jack here says hazel, but I say green.”

     “Is that so?” I said. “Well then you guys must be hard up for something to talk about.”

     “But which is it?” Don said. “We have a bet.” I glanced at Jack, and he was looking right at me. That screwed up my train of thought for a second.

     “So Don, you said green?” I said.

     “That’s right.”

     “And your friend here—Jack, is it?—said hazel.”

     “Yep.”

     “Well, I would normally say green,” I said, “but I think this brown dress might make ’em look hazel, so I guess maybe you’re both right.” Then I leaned forward so I could see into the car better. “You don’t say much, do you Jack?”

     Jack looked at me and sort of smirked. “Depends,” he said. That was the first word I ever heard him say. Depends.

     Then Don said, “But what about our bet?”

     “Maybe you should call it a tie,” I said.

     “Oh, it can’t be a tie,” Don said. “There’s big stakes involved.”    

     “What stakes?” I said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

     “Well, the loser has to pay the bill,” Don said.

     “And the winner?” I asked.

     “The winner gets to ask you out for a date,” Jack said. The way he said it, he left it up to me to decide if he was kidding or not. If I acted offended, he could just laugh it off and act like he was kidding. But if I didn’t act offended, then he’d know I was interested. Wasn’t that smart?

    I wasn’t sure if I should give him the satisfaction, at least right off. “Jeepers,” I said. “You guys are pretty sure of yourself. Don’t I get any say-so?”

     The next night I kept my eyes peeled for the sky-blue Buick with Illinois plates. I had almost gave up when it finally did pull in not long before closing time.

     It was in April’s station, and she made a beeline over there before I knew it. She wasn’t about to miss her last customer of the night. When she came back I asked her if she’d let me take it. “Those guys are friends of mine,” I said. “I met them last night.”

     “What guys?” she said. “There’s only one guy in that car. Since he specifically asked for you, you can have dibs on him.”

     “He asked for me?”

     “He inquired as to your whereabouts, yes.”

     I was excited, but I didn’t want to over-do it in front of April. Plus I didn’t know for sure if we were talking about Jack or Don. I thought Don could’ve borrowed the car for some reason.

     “Would you say he’s good looking?” I asked.

     “Are you kidding?” April said. She pointed her index finger to the back of her throat like she was trying to heave. This is terrible, I know, but then I thought it must be Don and not Jack. I have to admit I was a little disappointed.  

     But when I got to the car, I saw it was Jack after all. I shoulda known. Any question you ask April, she might give you a straight answer, but she’ll just as soon give you an answer that’s more amusing to her. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just being April.

     My heart skipped a beat. Then, as casually as I could, I said, “Well, look who’s here!”

     “Hello there,” Jack said. “I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d stop in and sample one of your root beer floats.”

     “Is that all?” I meant is that all he wanted to order. Or pretended to mean that.

     “No, not really,” he said. “I thought I might as well give you a ride home, too.”

     Is that so? I thought to myself. This one doesn’t waste any time, does he? I just said, “We’ll see,” and left it at that. You know, I have it on good authority that a girl about my age in Augusta got in a car with a fella she barely knew and was never seen or heard from again. That did pop into my head, but then it popped back out again.

     By closing time my mind was made up. I punched out, said goodnight to the girls, and I didn’t hesitate. I marched straight out the door and into the car with Jack.

 

 

 

Carol, 1947

 

Jack's folks rent a cabin up at Birch Lake for two weeks every summer without fail. Well, I think it was one week when Jack was younger and then it eventually expanded to two. We'd been dating almost a year when he invited me to spend a week at Larry’s with him and his folks. I was flattered because I knew Jack wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t serious about our future. I was also nervous, for any number of reasons.        

     The place is off the beaten path, to say the least. Jack’s dad made a little joke about that. “You might think Larry’s is in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “But you’d be wrong, because you’d have to go a ways to get to the middle of nowhere.”    

     After driving seven or eight hours from Chicago, you arrive at the town of Birch Lake. As the old saying goes, don’t blink or you might miss it. I think there might be two or three stoplights, if that helps you picture it. At the end of the main drag, you go past the paper mill and across a rickety old bridge over the Chippewa River. Then you follow along the lake shore for a while until the shoreline curves and the road goes straight.    

     After a few miles on this lonely stretch of road, you see the sign for Larry’s Lake Aire Resort (if you come upon the Black Bear tavern, you’ve gone a bit too far). You turn right at the sign onto a narrow gravel lane and wind through the woods for maybe a mile until you come into a clearing along the north shore of the lake. And there you are.    

     Larry and Eloise, the owners, live in a two-story frame house which is painted pale green with white trim. There’s a little sunroom jutting out of one side that looks like it was tacked on as an afterthought.    

     The four little cabins are arranged in a crescent facing away from the house, towards the lake. Between the cabins and the house are a few picnic tables, a horseshoe pit, that sort of stuff. There are a good many pine and birch trees on the grounds. And let’s not forget the peonies. I never had much of an opinion one way or the other about peonies, but apparently Eloise is wild about them. They are all over the place.    

     Our cabin, like the others, includes two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a tiny bathroom (you literally have to step into the shower in order to close the door), and a front room with a picture window facing the lake. There’s a dining table with four chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa that folds out to provide an extra bed. There’s knotty-pine paneling throughout and a linoleum floor that’s sort of clammy. The whole place smells a bit off—musty, I guess you’d say.    

 

I was assigned to sleep with Jack’s mom in one bedroom while Jack and his dad slept in the other. Our bedroom had a yellowing cartoon taped to the mirror above the dresser. The cartoon showed a bunch of firemen running into a burning house with their hose and axes. The caption said Don’t make an ash of yourself by sleeping in bed!    

     The first night we were there, it was pitch black. No moon, no breeze, and too muggy to sleep—at least for me. The rest of them were sleeping like babies. I was lying there listening to the crickets, to the moths slapping against the window screen, and to Mrs. Weber’s snoring. (I don’t call her Elizabeth because she hasn’t invited me to do so.)    

     All of a sudden I heard a car crunching up the gravel road and saw the headlights flash across the wall. After the car screeched to a stop, there was the most frightful banging and yelling. I didn’t know what to think, so I just rolled over and pulled the sheet up around my neck and tried to ignore the noise. It finally stopped and I drifted off to sleep. Or maybe it was the other way around.    

     The next morning at breakfast, I asked if anyone else had heard it. “Oh, that was only Larry,” Mike said. “When he gets home a little too late, Eloise locks him out and makes him sleep in the sunroom. He hollers for a while, but then he calms down all right.”    

     As soon as we cleared the dishes and Jack and Mike went out fishing, Mrs. Weber said, “What do you suppose the boys would like for lunch?”    

     I thought to myself, This is going to be some swell vacation.    

     Mrs. Weber always calls Jack and Mike “the boys,” and after a while I found myself doing it too, without even realizing it. The boys began Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with a couple hours of fishing, Tuesday and Thursday with a round of golf. It seems to go without saying that either fishing or golf needs to be done early, before it gets too hot—so regardless of whether it was a fishing day or a golf day, Mrs. Weber and I were up before dawn preparing breakfast. I didn’t say so, but I wondered why the boys couldn’t help themselves to toast and coffee now and again, especially since Mrs. Weber was in the habit of offering an elaborate hot lunch every day except Thursday. On Thursday the boys had lunch at the golf course.    

     It was understood that if the fishing trips yielded anything of consequence, what the boys called “keepers,” Mrs. Weber and I would clean them, cook them, and serve them for dinner. It couldn’t be lunch, of course, because lunch had to be ready by the time the boys landed at the dock. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her, but I wondered if Mrs. Weber ever secretly hoped the boys would come back empty-handed.   

     At any rate, the routine at the lake gave Mrs. Weber and me plenty of time to get to know each other better. Plenty of time and then some.   

 

If it rained, Heaven forbid, all bets were off. Jack and his folks were constantly asking each other whether it was supposed to rain, looked like rain, or was starting to rain. “What’ll we do if it rains?” Mrs. Weber might say at breakfast to no one in particular, and no one had an answer. Well, I had an answer that I didn’t share. She and I would do pretty much the same as we always did. We would fix the three meals and clean up after each one. The only difference was that the boys would be under foot in the cabin.    

     It actually did rain one day (thankfully only one) during our week at the lake. A genuine thunderstorm rolled in early one morning just about the time the boys would normally be heading out. We ended up sitting around the kitchen table listening to the weather reports on the radio, in between the pinging of the rain on the roof, and playing spades. I would’ve just as soon curled up in a corner with a book, but the consensus seemed to be that we should “go ahead and play cards.” And then there was more discussion about which card game we should go ahead and play. Eventually, we settled on spades.    

     On days when it wasn’t raining, the boys followed their normal routine in the morning and then, after lunch, Jack and I got to spend some time by ourselves. We’d go for a swim, or take a little rowboat ride, or stroll around the grounds. Maybe we’d play croquet for a while. Sometimes we’d just sun ourselves on the pier or sit and dangle our feet in the water. The water is quite cold, not to mention brown and murky.    

     Late in the afternoon, the water becomes almost completely still. As the sun starts to sink, the light over the lake is almost uncanny. It’s hard to describe, how the cottages and trees across the way are bathed in brilliant golden sunlight while we are already in the shade for the most part. I can see the attraction of the place then. I can understand why Jack and his folks love it.    

 

It was on this trip that I first met Jack’s friend Don. Jack had told me a bit about him. He’s a local guy from the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak, who’s been doing chores around the place for years. I gather that he and Jack have been practically inseparable during Jack’s previous visits to Larry’s—best buddies for a week or two out of every fifty-two. “You’ll love him,” Jack had told me on the drive up. “I promise you.”    

     Even as naïve as I tend to be, I knew full well that I was there to be judged, and that Don was one of the judges, along with Mike (he had long since told me to call him that), Mrs. Weber, and Jack himself. They were in their natural habitat, if you will, as comfortable as an old shoe, whereas I could hardly breathe. I lived in constant fear that I would somehow manage to say or do the wrong thing. I imagined a hundred ways I might cause offense, and I reviewed the list in my head over and over. I promised myself I would not use too much hot water, would not take a second helping of anything until everyone else had, would not be too clingy with Jack, would not plop down in someone else’s favorite spot on the sofa, would not say one word about flies, ants, mosquitoes, or spiders, and, perhaps most importantly, would not stink up the bathroom.    

     Mrs. Weber and I were starting to fix lunch the second day when Don and his wife rolled up in an old jalopy. “Hello!” he yelled through the kitchen window. “Here comes trouble!”    

     “Oh hello there, Don,” Mrs. Weber said. “And how are you, Maricel dear?”    

     Maricel is Don’s wife. She’s from the Philippines. She is the cutest thing—silky black hair, big dark eyes, nice little figure. She held onto Don’s arm in a formal way, just above the elbow, as if they were posing for a picture. She didn’t say boo.    

     “We just come from church,” Don said, “and we figured we’d swing by here and see what’s doing.”          “Well, the boys aren’t here right now,” Mrs. Weber said. “They’re still out fishing.”    

     “Oh fudge,” Don replied. “I should’ve realized.”    

     "You haven’t met Jack’s girlfriend,” Mrs. Weber said. “Don, this is Carol.”    

     “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Don said, grinning. “And I do mean pleasure! You’re so much prettier than Jack let on. I tell you, it never fails. You can’t hardly get nothing out of him.”    

     At this point Don and Maricel were still standing outside the screen door peering in at Mrs. Weber and me. It was a standoff until Mrs. Weber finally said, “What’s the matter with me? Come on in!” She shooed them over to the table, sat them down, and went to pour some coffee. I started to follow her, but she motioned for me to sit.    

     It was quite awkward, because after the initial introductions and pleasantries, none of us had anything to say. The best I could come up with was, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Don.”    

     “Oh, that’s too bad!” he said. He nudged Maricel to let her in on the joke, which she didn’t seem to get. She just stared at the sugar bowl. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”    

     “I assure you it was all very complimentary,” I said.       

     “You see? That just proves my point.”

 

On our last night at the lake, Jack and I went out for a walk before bedtime. The moon was out and full, or darn near full. Everything was still except for the sound of the cicadas and the faint patter of our feet on the gravel. You know how in the movies every scene that’s supposed to be in a rural setting at night features crickets chirping one or two at a time? I can honestly say I never heard that particular sound at Birch Lake. Instead there was the literally incessant drone of the cicadas.    

     We walked the length of the gravel lane all the way out to the main road and back. We held hands and didn’t say much. I kept my promise to myself not to mention mosquitoes. All was right with the world.    

     When we got back to Larry’s, we went and sat on the bench at the end of the pier. Jack wrapped his arm around my shoulder and we smooched for a while.    

     Finally he said, “I should thank you for coming up here this week.”    

     “Thanks to you and your folks for having me,” I said. I leaned into him a little more.    

     “It was a great week, wasn’t it?”    

     He had me there. “Yes, it was,” I said.    

     “And another thing,” Jack said. “I realize it took a lot of nerve on your part.”    

     There was my opening. “So how did I do?” I said.    

     “Pardon?”    

     “How did I do? Did I pass the test?”    

     He didn’t answer. He wheeled around in front of me, dropped to one knee, and held out the most beautiful diamond ring I could have imagined.

 

 

Ray, 1960

 

My name is Ray Weber. I'm nine years old. I live with my mom and dad in St. Gregory's parish in Chicago. I go to St. Gregory's school, which my mom also went to. My dad is a building inspector for the city. He goes around to different buildings to make sure they are safe and sound. He is also a precinct captain for the regular Democratic organization, which is called the party. That job is lots of work. He has to help the people in our neighborhood whenever they need something.     

     One Sunday morning Dad asked me to go outside and get the paper. I found Mrs. Weinschenk and Mrs. Corcoran sitting in our car. They said they were waiting for a ride to church. When I told Dad, he said, “Well, if that don’t take the cake. What if I was laid up in bed with a hangnail or something? They’d have sat there all day and it would serve ’em right.”     

     Even though Dad was a little aggravated, he still said he would drive the ladies to church. Then he told Mom, “Ray has to come with, Carol. That way the old gals can’t come back later and say I tried to get fresh with them.”     

     In case you are wondering how the ladies got into Dad’s car in the first place, it is because he never locks it. “I’d like to meet the fellow who has enough nerve to mess with it,” he said.

 

Whenever there is an election, Dad needs to make sure all our neighbors vote for the party candidates. He has to help the people get to the polls. Some people also need to be shown how to vote when they get there.     

     My dad and his friends get to march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade every year because they work for the city. That is really something. Also, last year when Mayor Daley was running, my folks were invited to a lunch with him. They got to shake his hand and they also got an autographed picture of him for me.    

     My dad is quite a guy. He is very handsome. Everybody says so. He is a scratch golfer. He is a sharp dresser. He is a good shot with a rifle and an expert fisherman. He was a star center fielder and halfback in high school. I’ve seen his varsity letters and newspaper clippings. He can shuffle cards and do sleight-of-hand tricks just like a magician. He can shoot pool or darts with the best of them. He bowls around 180 or so. He knows how to drive a speedboat. He is an excellent water skier. When he goes slalom style, which means to go on one ski, he can get his body almost parallel to the water and shoot a giant spray behind him. He can also flick a cigarette butt a good twenty feet with one finger.            My dad served in Europe during World War II. He won the Purple Heart, which is a very important medal. Our friend Don said he got it for falling off of a bar stool in London, but I think Don was only kidding. I asked Dad and he said, “I guess Don’s story will do as good as any.”     

     My mom is a housewife. She is very pretty with dark brown hair and eyes. Sometimes she puts her hair in a ponytail and sometimes she puts a scarf around it. But either way she always looks good. She enjoys playing bridge with her girlfriends and also curling up with a good book. She loves baseball, too, so she fits right in with the rest of the family. She is the best mom and she also volunteers to help out at our school and church.

 

Dad told me how he met Mom. He was riding on the L one day when he spotted her. He didn’t get off at his regular stop, but kept on riding to see where she was going to get off. He said, “You can bet your life I wasn’t getting off that train until she did.” Then he followed her into her office, which was on the seventh floor of the Merchandise Mart building. That is the headquarters of the CTA, where my mom was working in those days.       

     My dad said by the time he got back on the L and rode back to his stop, he ended up late for work and got chewed out but good. Then he went back to my mom’s office the next day and asked her out for a date. He said she looked like just the kind of a girl you would marry.     

     The Merchandise Mart is known for being the only building in Chicago with its own L stop and post office. The mart was erected in 1930. It was the largest building in the world, if you are talking about square feet, until the Pentagon was erected outside of Washington, D.C.

 

If you would like to have a real nice vacation, you should do yourself a favor and go to Larry’s Lake Aire Resort, which is located up north in Birch Lake, Wisconsin. Our family goes there every year. We are going next month. My Grandpa Mike and Grandma Elizabeth just bought the place over the winter. They used to go on vacation there for umpteen years, and then they decided to buy the place when Grandpa Mike retired. They haven’t gotten around to changing the name yet. That’s why it’s still called Larry’s. Larry is the name of the man who owned it before.     

     My Grandpa Mike is my dad’s dad. He is about five-foot-nine and weighs about 165 pounds. That’s about the same size as my dad, or maybe a little less. If I picture him, he usually wears an old brown fedora with a red feather, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and some gray or tan pants. He also wears a blue windbreaker, especially when we go fishing. If it very warm out, he just wears a sleeveless undershirt.     

     Grandpa Mike used to work for the phone company in Chicago before he retired. He fought in France during World War I. He also was a boxer in the service. My dad said he held his own and then some.     

     There are four cabins for rent at Larry’s. You can do many activities there such as swimming, water skiing, and fishing. You can also play croquet, horseshoes, and badminton. At night sometimes we catch lightning bugs in a jar.     

     Our friend Don is from Birch Lake and he helps Grandpa out. He does a lot of work around the place and he knows how to fix things. He is a good worker and a really nice guy. Dad said Don’s job is to be a gofer, but Mom said she would rather call him a handyman or a jack of all trades.     

     In case you would like to know where Birch Lake is located, it is 361 miles from Chicago, 287 miles from Milwaukee and 135 miles from Minneapolis, Minnesota.     

     Birch Lake was man-made many years ago when they built a dam so they could float logs down the Chippewa River to the saw mill. Do you know what happens when they build a dam? The water that backs up behind it makes a lake. The low spots on the ground end up under water and the higher spots end up being islands. Grandpa Mike explained that to me.     

     Birch Lake was man-made many years ago when they built a dam so they could float logs down the Chippewa River to the saw mill. Do you know what happens when they build a dam? The water that backs up behind it makes a lake. The low spots on the ground end up under water and the higher spots end up being islands. Grandpa Mike explained that to me.

     There used to be a wooden statue of an Indian brave over there, which was carved out of a white pine log back in the 1800s by a man named Luke Lyons, using only an axe and a pocket knife. The Indian brave was known as a good-luck symbol by all the lumberjacks and rivermen for many years. One time he toppled over in a storm and floated all the way down to Jim Falls, which is twenty miles away.

     The Indian brave was moved to the town hall park in 1950, when the new concrete dam was completed. I have seen the Indian brave and I would say he is about eight feet tall.

     When the new dam was built, Birch Lake got much bigger, but the part by Larry’s stayed pretty much the same. The new dam is for generating electric power, not floating logs. When it opened, the newspaper said now the houses that were built out of logs that floated over the old dam are getting their power from the same place the logs came from! Grandpa Mike showed me the article. I think that was pretty neat.    

     Every year when we go to Larry’s I always notice something. When we park the car in the trees behind the cabin and carry our suitcases around to the front, the way the ground slopes down to the lake, the view reminds me of when you come up the stairs at the Cubs game and see the stands sloping down to the field.     

     Also, whenever we are in the speed boat, the water right behind it gets churned up by the motor and it looks just like foamy root beer.     

     You can catch all sorts of fish in Birch Lake such as muskie, northern pike, walleye, bass, perch, bluegill, and many others. One day last summer Grandpa Mike took me out fishing and Dad took our picture when we got back. In the picture we are standing on the pier. Grandpa is holding up a string with a whole bunch of little fish on it and I am holding up a giant muskie.     

     Everybody was very excited because they thought I caught the muskie. But do you know what really happened? Grandpa actually hooked it and reeled it in. All I did was help to land it in the net for him. Then he made believe I caught it. He didn’t tell Mom and Dad I caught it, but he didn’t tell them I didn’t, either.     

     Even though I didn’t really catch the fish myself but only helped out a little, I still like that picture a lot. My dad was so proud when he took it.     

     In case you don’t know this, they have black squirrels up north, but I have never seen any in Chicago. You can also buy fireworks in Wisconsin, which you can’t do in Illinois. If you ever go to Wisconsin, you will see lots of places selling fireworks along the road. You probably shouldn’t buy them, though, because they are pretty dangerous.