Wolverine Weather

MY MAIZE AND BLUE DAY, a new children’s picture book by Old Mission resident Sonja Richards and illustrated by Pauline Vialle (the same duo who brought us THE COMET KID, a kids’ story of fishing that parents and grandparents love, too) is this week’s featured new book in at Dog Ears. Purchase a copy at the store and fill out an entry form for a drawing to win two tickets to a 2008 University of Michigan football game! What fun, eh? (I’ll be mailing entry forms to the author, not pulling the winning form myself, in case anyone wondered.) Plenty of people around town sport maize and blue, and I hope they get their names in the goldfish bowl for the drawing, but anyone from anywhere who buys the book is eligible for the drawing. All Dog Ears copies are signed by the author, too, as are copies of THE COMET KID.

One of my favorite northern Michigan plants, the highbush cranberry (Viburnum trilobum) is blooming now. Here is a view of one just south of Omena, with the bay in the background, but you’ll notice it on many of the back roads of Leelanau County. Every year I covet these shrubs for our home grounds, and every year the season gets away without my having acquired any, but when the next June comes I enjoy the wild ones all over again. LANDSCAPING WITH NATIVE PLANTS OF MICHIGAN, by Lynn M. Steiner, gives it a good review. Maybe I’ll score a couple from a local nursery this month! I love viburnums in general in all their variety. The old ‘Chenault’ I planted in the old corner Dog Ears location (Mill & Nagonaba) is still doing well.

In my home gardens, it’s iris time. My favorites are the small, delicate, deep purple Siberians, but I have large bearded iris in many colors, gifts over time from a gardening friend, and they have their own blowsy, overblown charm, these painted ladies of my higgledy-piggledy garden.

Finished FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON this morning. The ending was not a surprise, as the early chapters gave hints of what was to come, but while it was very sad, in many ways, to see Charlie regress, especially to see the window close between him and Alice, in another way, while Charlie’s early life lacked intellectual depth (as will his later life), and the high period of his mind soared far above what most of us will experience, the general arc of his life is but an exaggerated line mirroring our own. We all come from darkness into the light for a brief period of bloom.

A couple back from six months in Florida complained yesterday about Michigan weather. Ha! If they’d been here all winter, they’d think this June beautiful, rain and all. My gardens are loving it! It's what I call Scottish weather, remembering the fabulous gardens of Scotland, where I was cold the whole week, and my feet were never dry, but the towering foxgloves made it all worthwhile. Here and now, viburnum does it. And no, it's not nearly as cold and wet in Leelanau County as it was in Scotland, either.

Third, Fourth, Fifth and More

Today in the bookstore I started telling a friend that our veterinarian had been giving me the—I stopped, suddenly unsure. “Third degree? Fourth degree? Fifth?” I put the question to those present. One woman browsing in the foreign language section swore it was the fifth, but no one knew where why degrees came into it at all. I could have pulled out a dictionary or e-mailed Michael Sheehan at Wordmall, but Googling was quick and easy, and Answer Bank told me that the correct degree was third, that the phrase came from Masonic ritual, third-degree being a level of rigorous examination coming after first- and second-degree mastery. That left us, however, not knowing what to do with “fifth,” and my friend suggested the “Fifth Estate.” No, I had that one down pat: the press is known as the Fourth Estate. “What are the other three?” David asked. I had church and nobility but had (God help me!) forgotten the commoners. These three were the official Estates General of France, as the Ancien Régime was organized prior to the Revolution. “’Taking the fifth’” was David’s suggestion for rounding out our 3-4-5 discussion, and that, I’m glad to say, stumped none of us. At least we’re not ignorant of our own Constitution.

(This is the kind of topic typically addressed in blogs, isn’t it? Every once in a while I have to do something typical. But now, moving on….)

What do you do when you wake up at 3 or 4 a.m. and can’t get back to sleep? I got up and pulled a book off the shelf: FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON, by Daniel Keyes, thinking I had never read it. Well, it turned out that I recognized the story, but it’s been so long that I don’t remember what happens, and diving into it seemed like a good way to use unplanned time awake before dawn.

FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON reminds me of THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME, by Mark Haddon, in that both authors create narrators whose minds work very differently from the minds of most readers. Haddon’s young male protagonist is autistic, while 32-year-old Charlie Gordon is retarded until he undergoes the same operation that turned a laboratory mouse, Algernon, into a genius maze-runner.

The reader meets regarded Charlie first as a retarded person (the mouse beats him at the maze, time and again), then witnesses, through Charlie’s written “progress reports” to researchers and his later, more personal private journal entries, the growth not only of his intellect but also his awareness of himself and others. Until he got “smart,” Charlie didn’t realize his co-workers at the bakery were making fun of him but thought they were his friends. (They reject him when his intelligence surpasses theirs.) When he goes to one of the researchers for help with a moral dilemma, he is dissatisfied when told he bears no responsibility. “But I’m not an inanimate object,” he objects. The researcher says, “I meant before the operation,” but Charlie replies, “ I was a person before the operation.” The difference is that “before the operation” he didn’t realize when others were not treating him as a person, deserving of respect. It’s a difficult realization.

As I say, I don’t remember what happens in the story but will find out (again) as I continue reading. One of the pleasures of forgetting is being surprised all over again.

The mental processes of young Christopher in THE CURIOUS INCIDENT do not undergo radical transformation. The limits and gifts he has at the beginning of the novel he has still at the end. The difference is not in his brain but in, if you will, his spirit. With every traditional coming-of-age story, the character must meet challenges and move forward into independence, and Christopher’s biggest challenge is autism. The hurdles he clears in the course of the story give him confidence for a future no one else in his life had been able to imagine for him.

Seeing the world through the eyes of another person is one of fiction’s great gifts. Seeing the world through the eyes of Charlie and Christopher enlarges our own worlds, as well as our sympathy for others. It’s also a reminder of how much courage some people need in what are for the rest of us quite ordinary situations. So much of what we take for granted is wondrous, miraculous.

Tonight the world is washed clean by the rain, the light clear, colors singing.

A View is Where You Find It

Lake Michigan views are not the kind of real estate typically owned by booksellers and artists. Not “owned,” as in “from the picture windows of their houses,” that is. Many of David’s beautiful paintings, though, are in homes with lake views, and we can visit a view stretching out across Lake Michigan by hiking across field and orchard and uphill to woods’ edge from our tucked-away-behind-the-hills farmhouse. If I were a kid, I’d head up to the edge of the woods with book in hand, where I could glance away from the pages from time to time to enjoy the blue of the Big Lake. Maybe I should try it, anyway, one sunny, dry evening, when the current rains are rained out. But would Sarah be content to lie by my side? Maybe if she had a good run first and then I read aloud to her?

Dream Day in the Bookstore

Once in a while, along comes a day in my bookstore that is like a day in someone’s dream of having a bookstore. Saturday was like that.

Morning brought out-of-town book customers, including children who enjoyed commanding Sarah through her paces for treats, and then an impromptu salon, of which the topic was Leland history, special focus: Fishtown. Susan Cordes usually stops in on Saturday mornings to pick up a book order, have coffee with me and discuss our respective dogs. Susan lives in Northport now and is a school board member but grew up in Leland (her family owners of the Leland Mercantile) and graduated from St. Mary’s School in Lake Leelanau before going on to a teaching career. Yesterday while she was here, along came Amanda Holmes and Dan Stewart. Holmes, author of the award-winning Omena history, OMENA: A PLACE IN TIME, is now administrative director (or something like that) of Fishtown Preservation, a huge job but one for which she is ideally qualified, with a Ph.D. in folklore and natural gifts of diplomacy and charm. Finally, completing the circle, arriving so fortuitously his entrance seemed almost on cue, came Nick Lederle, year-round Fishtown resident. “My house,” he says proudly of his remodeled two-story fish shanty across the river from the Cove restaurant, “is the most photographed house in Leelanau County.” Nick Lederle and Susan Cordes are cousins, members of families going back four generations in Leland. Amanda could hardly take notes fast enough! David and I had been telling her for months that she had to meet Nick, but this was the first time they’d gotten together. And it happened in Northport! (“The gym’s neutral territory!” cries a character in the musical “West Side Story.”) Well, that was a great session.

As the satisfied Fishtown discussion group filed out the door, I was happy to greet an old friend coming in. It was Richard Fidler, whom I first met when he visited my Traverse City bookstore on Union Street in 1994. Retired now from teaching, Richard has turned his scientific research mind to the study of local history, and the Grand Traverse Pioneer and Historical Society has published his book, GLIMPSES OF GRAND TRAVERSE PAST: REFLECTIONS ON A LOCAL HISTORY. Richard’s book has a great cover design and wonderful photographs, and I was drawn into the stories as soon as the book was in my hands. I still haven’t come to the part explaining the saying “A view of the bay is worth half the pay,” and Richard was surprised I didn’t know the old white oak on Washington Street, but I look forward to reading every word of GLIMPSES.

It was three o’clock, but the literary day wasn’t over yet. Before the end of the afternoon came a rare visit from author Stephanie Mills, of whom Jim Harrison wrote (for the cover of her most recent book, TOUGH LITTLE BEAUTIES), “Stephanie Mills has always been on the cutting edge…as one of our leading social critics.” I was honored that a highly self-aware environmentalist like Stephanie would drive to Northport to bring me a selection of her books, two of them newly reprinted by New Catalyst Books. TURNING AWAY FROM TECHNOLOGY: A NEW VISION FOR THE 21ST CENTURY, a book edited by Mills, with contributions from Wendell Berry and Susan Griffin, among others, is one I hadn’t had before and am glad to have in the bookstore now. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ECOLOGY? (1989); IN THE SERVICE OF THE WILD: RESTORING AND REINHABITING DAMAGED LAND (1995); and EPICUREAN SIMPLICITY (2002) are also now available again at Dog Ears Books. We were enjoying our conversation so much, I stayed half an hour later than usual, and we promised each other another visit soon. This picture of Stephanie Mills shows her signing books with the fountain pen she calls her “word processor.” Does she have a computer? We’ll save that revelation for a later post.

A few years back, I had a call from an instructor at the Interlochen Arts Academy. Easter vacation was coming up, but some of the international students were staying on campus, and this instructor was putting together a holiday field trip for them. Would I be open on Sunday? Well, not usually, except between Memorial Day and Labor Day. How about Monday? No, that year I was taking both Sundays and Mondays off, and Bruce was still at his Florida winter home. The man on the other end of the line sounded so disappointed that it struck me that David and I had no real plans for the day. “Sure!” I told him impulsively. “I’ll be here on Sunday for you.”

The students came on Easter Sunday. The day was sunny, and I made lots of coffee and put out bowls of jellybeans, mixed flavors. We had the radio tuned to the Interlochen station, which pleased the students, who lolled about in the leather chairs and on the floor, petting our old dog, sight-singing from sheet music, and showing each other passages in books they’d found. Everyone was relaxed and happy, especially me. At last, after a couple of the most fulfilling hours I’ve ever had in my own bookstore, they lined up with their purchases and thanked me for being there.

Such are examples of bookstore dream days. But here’s the thing—you never know when one will come along. Another thing—besides the whole dream days, there are dream hours and dream encounters, and any day the bookstore is open, the dream may suddenly spring to life. A book-lover from Chicago, writers from Woodstock, a librarian from Portage or Ann Arbor, poets from here and there, kids who love books and dogs, men and women eager to share with me the names of their favorite authors—the list could go on forever. Old friends, new acquaintances, regulars and one-time visitors: who will walk in the door next? Of my bookstore and David’s gallery, we like to say, when musing on what a day will bring, “You never know.”

Today it’s raining, and the streets of Northport are pretty empty, but you never know….

Graduation, Northport Style

There’s nothing else in the world to compare with Northport graduation. Last year’s class was a big one, 23 graduates. This year’s Class of 2008, by contrast, was 11 strong--six handsome young men and five beautiful young women. It seems such a short time ago they were goofy, adorable little grade school kids. Now they’re going out into the world on their own.

What makes graduation different in Northport?

Like almost everything else, it’s a community event. With such small classes, there’s no need to restrict seating to family only; instead, anyone is welcome. Because the school is right in the village (up the hill from “downtown”), everyone knows at least some of the graduates, kids who have been playing and walking and, more recently, driving and working in town for years. They have made their mark on all of us. As Barbara McCann said, in her commencement address, here in Northport, “It takes a child to raise a village,” and all these kids have made contributions to our village life.

Since the whole K-12 school is small, young children are involved in Northport graduation, too. This year the second- and third-graders sang the national anthem at the beginning of the ceremonies. Later, little Minaal Campos and Logan Adams were the flower-bearers, handing each graduate a pink Asiatic lily from the basket they carried. (Graduates presented their parents with white gerbera daisies.) Young barefoot girls in the bleachers behind my seat (high enough to get good pictures, at the end of the row by the door where there was a nice breeze) scrambled up and down from time to time to get a closer view. Maybe they were imagining their own distant graduation evening.

Each year the graduates, many of whom have known each other since kindergarten, say how close they are as a group. Remember, we’re not talking about a class of 1200-1500 kids but a class of eleven. In a larger school, any student might have ten close friends. That group of friends, however, would probably be quite similar in terms of ethnic background, family income, academic achievement, extracurricular interests, future aspirations, etc. In a small school, the potential friendship pool is limited, and an entirely different dynamic is at work. Some people think only large schools can prepare young people for the “real world,” but most adults don’t get to select every individual in their work group or neighborhood, and a small school is solid preparation for learning to get along and work together as a team with different people. “We’re like a family,” the graduates always say.

After the ceremony, after all the graduates had been hugged in the reception line by half the town, people started strolling downhill to the first of several weekend graduation parties. Yes, on a beautiful June evening (thunderstorms and tornadoes alike non-events, to everyone's great relief) we could walk up to the school and walk down to the first party afterward, where some of the 2007 graduates, back in town for the summer or at least for a visit, had tales of their first year away at college. Here in Northport, you can come home again.

So today, hats off to the Northport Class of 2008—

Ryan Keith Blessing (valedictorian)
Octavia Celeste Buss (class president)
Edward Ricardo Gonzalez
Erik Christopher Johnson
Benny Lopez, Jr.
Amanda Marie Luna
Sophia Sica Mosher (salutatorian)
Rose Nimkiins Petoskey
Jason Roman
Elizabeth Margaret Garthe-Shiner
Basil Edward Stowe

We wish you all future success and happiness! And keep us in your hearts, as we will keep you in ours.

The Roads, the Season

You get to Northport from the west side of Traverse City by traveling M-22 north along Grand Traverse Bay, through Greilickville, Suttons Bay, Peshawbestown and Omena. To get to the heart of our village, instead of following M-22 as it loops back south, you stay on the straightaway, which becomes M-201. At the blinking light, turn right, then left (all is still 201), and you’ll find yourself on Waukazoo Street. This is where our zig-zag downtown starts. Where Waukazoo makes a T at Nagonaba, a right turn will take you directly to the harbor, while a right and then a left will put you on Mill Street and start you on your way to Peterson Park or the state park and the Grand Traverse Lighthouse, and you’ll see many Northport businesses along Waukazoo, Nagonaba and Mill streets. Welcome to our life! And doff your new cap, after you buy it, to Sally Coohon at Dolls and More, who came up with the idea of publicizing M-201 and has these caps for sale at her shop.

All over town the past couple of weeks, village residents and business people have been sprucing up buildings and surroundings. The awnings are back up on our building, and Stephanie and I (finally) have our flower boxes planted. Flower boxes on the bridge on Mill Street (now there’s a mysterious feature of the village—a bridge you can cross almost without noticing it, unless you’re on foot or bicycle) are brimming with petunias. Sally filled her planter last week, and Reuben and June have the corner of Mill and Nagonaba around the Nature Gems shop (their specialty: polished Petoskey stones) looking lovely. In fact, you’re better off walking around Northport if you really want to appreciate all the local garden effort. A stroll to the harbor includes gardens in front of the bank and the library, as well as Barbara Charpentier’s beautiful and whimsical creation before you cross over to the old depot building.

It’s hot today. Of course—because graduation is tonight, in the small gym! Hot weather for graduation is like rain for the St. Wenceslaus chicken dinner, and everyone will just go right ahead and have a wonderful, memorable time.

Fog, Rain--and a Trip to Paris, France

Many readers and travelers asked to respond with a word association to the cue “fog” would probably say “London.” On my only (brief) visit to London, there was no fog except in my brain, as I tried to find my way around. Truth is, my mind hears or thinks “London” and leaps across the Channel (la Manche, s’il vous plait) faster than you can say, “Bleu, blanc et rouge.” So here on this foggy morning I’d like to indulge myself by writing about my favorite three Paris books.

One is Eliot Paul’s THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS. Set in the heart-breaking period between the two world wars, it lulls the reader at the beginning with eccentric but cozy stories of people living and working in the neighborhood of the famous, tiny Rue du Chat Qui Pêche. Gradually, however, tension creeps in. Frugality is no defense against rampant inflation, and some of the desperate or just plain angry respond to the financial situation with political extremism. Names are called, rumors spread. The book closes with the author’s departure for home (U.S.), and the reader knows the Occupation is at hand. The book is an intimate look at a small neighborhood, as well as a microcosmic view of French life in the time leading up to World War II.

THE HORRORS OF LOVE, by Jean Dutourd, is an entirely different kettle of fish. If you’ve seen the film “My Dinner with Andre,” you have a template for THE HORRORS OF LOVE. The entire novel is a conversation between two men. They sit in restaurants and cafes, they stroll about the city, and all the time one character is telling the other, a writer, a story he thinks would make a wonderful tragic novel. The writer needs convincing: he had some acquaintance with the politician in question and his wife and does not initially believe their story reaches the stature of tragedy. We meet an entire cast of characters only through the two characters in dialogue. The book is a tour de force. And the story could not take place anywhere but in Paris.

Finally, there is Adam Gopnik’s PARIS TO THE MOON, a collection of essays published in THE NEW YORKER magazine when Gopnik was living and writing in Paris. His older child went to school with Parisian children, his younger was born in the city. But this isn’t what makes Gopnik’s writing so special. First, there is his broad general knowledge and a brilliant ability to make connections, qualities necessary to any essayist. Along with these--and a style full of delightful surprises without ever being annoyingly experimental--he has the natural curiosity of a real, honest-to-God traveler. Not content to remain on the beaten path, Gopnik searches out and discovers Paris “insolite,” the offbeat and quirky corners, and we his readers reap all the benefit.

It’s pouring rain now in Northport (almost noon), reminding me of how many cool, rainy days springtime in Paris actually brings. The French have a saying, “All bad things come from England.” They like to say how terrible London weather is, neglecting to mention that Paris will have that same weather in short order. It doesn’t matter. When it rains, you go inside the café, you visit a museum, browse around a bookstore, whatever. You’re in Paris! Or in Northport!

Staff Book Review: CATHEAD BAY

Back by popular demand, another book review from Bruce Balas:

CATHEAD BAY, by Robert Underhill. Delicti Press, 2008. Paperback.

What a fun read this is, the second of the “Sheriff Hoss Davis” mystery stories, since much of the action takes place right here in Northport! It’s fascinating to walk the familiar route from Barb’s Bakery, past Dog Ears Books and on down to the Beech Tree property, seeing it all through the eyes of the characters of the novel. I’m sure that the author intended no resemblance to any real persons, but a number of minor characters you meet in this story seem rather familiar. See if you agree with me!

The plot involves the murder of a famous New York chef, during a party he is hosting at his vacation home on Cathead Bay. The police arrive, quickly eliminate all but a few attendees as suspects, and the investigation begins. The author departs from the traditional mystery storyline, with all the characters assembled in the library, where the detective finally reveals the killer's identity at the end of the story. Instead, fairly early on, the police figure out a probable culprit, and their investigation becomes an effort to find evidence to support their presumption. Robert Underhill paints a very clear picture of police procedure as he has the reader sit in on the daily meetings where the sheriff and his deputies evaluate what they have learned and map out the steps they will take to follow up on other leads.

One aspect of Underhill’s style that I found particularly striking stems from the fact that he is a psychiatrist and uses his professional training to be sure that the reader understands the characters’ motivations. Very little happens without a well thought-out and clearly described reason (Hint: Keep this in mind as you read the prologue!), and the author makes a particular point of the importance of motivation as we follow the police in their investigation. For instance, at one point the chef’s wife is thought to be the murderer when it is revealed that her husband was having an affair; however, that lead fizzles when further investigation reveals that he has been having affairs throughout his marriage and that there’s nothing unusual about this one that would make it a motive for murder.

A significant subplot involves the sheriff's’ relations with the press. A national TV crew provides much of the tension early in the story, as their broadcasts characterize the Leelanau sheriff as “small town” and “bumbling” and constantly pressure him to come up with a suspect. In addition, they repeatedly interfere with his investigation in their search for a dramatic news story. The resulting conflict between the public’s right to know and the potential suspect’s right to privacy provides an interesting sidelight. How the author ultimately settles this issue is cleverly devised and leaves no doubt as to how he feels about the issue.

One more interesting feature of this story is that although it is a Sheriff Hoss Davis mystery, his deputy, who happens to be a woman, takes the lead in the investigation. It’s not easy for a man to write from a woman’s point of view. I enjoyed the story and felt Underhill did the woman’s viewpoint well, but I’d like to hear from some of you women readers as to how you think he did.

In paperback, only 272 pages long and with quite large print, this will make a great summer beach read. If you enjoy it, I can recommend the first book of the series, STRAWBERRY MOON by the same author.

- Bruce Balas

Waukazoo Neighbors

Stephanie Metcalf’s consignment shop, Funky Mama’s, was the first business open in Woodruff Palmer’s newly renovated building on Waukazoo Street. (I wanted him to call it the Palmer Building, but he is too modest.) Once Funky Mama’s was in place, Woody finished the space that became the new home of Dog Ears Books (we moved into it in December 2006), and finally the Painted Horse Gallery opened last summer. My collective name for these changes is “Waukazoo Revival,” one step in the larger “Northport Renaissance.” (Anyone is welcome to borrow my labels in talking up Northport.) Since Dog Ears was born on Waukazoo Street (back in 1993), I take a lot of personal pleasure and pride in the improvements. Stephanie and her shop are fun neighbors for me, too.

I’m reminded to mention here that Moomers ice cream is in Northport, too, and also on Waukazoo Street. It's at The Filling Station, conveniently next-door to the building housing Dog Ears Books, the Painted Horse Gallery and Funky Mama’s. In case you haven’t yet heard (if you’ve just emerged from a cave or something), ‘Moomers Homemade Ice Cream has been selected as the best ice cream store in the country, according to a “Good Morning America” poll.’ No ice cream in the bookstore, please, so buy your books and funky furniture first, load up your car, then get ice cream cones and stroll down to the harbor to watch the ducks and look at the boats.

Sometimes people ask me, “Is Northport coming back?” Guess what! It never went away! Don’t you wish you were here?

Getting Hands Dirty Is Good for the Soul

This is my personal, close-to-home jungle, far from the monsoons of India but the closest I can come to an image to go with this post. I figured out what irritates me in Louis Bromfield’s fiction. He can’t leave character judgments to his reader. Such-and-such a character we are supposed to see as small-minded and ridiculous, another as innocent and passionate (Bromfield likes to join these two qualities, and a character lacking one will also lack the other), etc. The main character in THE RAINS CAME lost both his innocence and his passion in the war; still, we are to admire the perspicacity with which he sees through other characters. If only Ransome had turned to writing, like his author, he might have been saved! Well, perhaps he will be saved yet in this novel, but I’m not sure I’ll stick it out to the end.

It seems particularly unfair, in a sporting sense, that an author should expose to ridicule the characters he himself has fashioned. He has bestowed their faults on them, after all, and the motivations that drive them come from his imagination. Bromfield imagines the motivations of his characters much too clearly, too narrowly. He stacks the deck. I miss the sympathy of Betty Smith (A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN), who created a few characters one would not want to sit next to on a bus but still managed to convey understanding for why they had constructed such prickly defenses for themselves. What Bromfield does for individual characters he does also for religions, cultures and nations. The deck is stacked, motivation narrowly ascribed, judgment passed. Too simple! Too pat!

So what a lucky break for us readers that Louis Bromfield turned from fiction to farming and gave us his healing vision of wornout land restored to productivity. I imagine farming healed his spirit, too. The weariness he felt when returning home to Ohio from Europe has an echo in the weariness of Ransome in THE RAINS CAME, but there is no room in MALABAR FARM for despair, no time for self-pity. That makes sense, too. Now that I've got radish, turnip, chard, beet, carrot and bean seeds in the ground, the earth feels like a mighty good place.