Hi:
By trade I have been a non-fiction writer. Ihave written mostly science articles and newspaper stuff. I was also a reporter/producer for a local affilate of NPR, but this is my first work of long fiction.
John
Whispers From The Hollow
By: John M. McGowan
The Upper Peninsula of Michigan
Late summer 1932
The only thing Frank Winthrop loved better than his 1931 Model A Roadster was his girlfriend Abigail Gleason. He and Abby had become engaged to marry just last week. Her parents had thrown a lawn party in their honor the previous Sunday. A semi-formal affair that was attended by what Abby's mother called, all the best people. The Gleason's were somewhat snobbish for Franks taste, but he loved Abby dearly.
But today was different, no fancy people, no dressy cloths, or crystal glasses filled with champagne. Today it was just the two of them. They decided to spend the evening at their favorite place in the world, a secluded cove on the Sturgeon River. They loved to go there and watch the sun go down behind the Huron Mountains. Abby packed a picnic supper, and he brought the beer. He thought, for a rich girl she sure knew how to have a good time. As they lie on the blanket watching the colorful show, the sun finally disappeared. When twilight descended they reluctantly decided it was time to go. Soon it would be dark, and the road not much more than a wide path, was bad enough in the daytime. Frank was finishing his last beer while Abby was putting the leftovers back in the basket.
Suddenly the sky lit up, and there was a great boom, a hundred times louder than the loudest thunder. Frank and Abby were never seen again. There was a search of course, but all that was ever found was the burned out wreckage of Frank's Model A Ford, and a clearing formed in the woods from the impact of the meteor. There was no crater, no pieces of meteor, nothing, just a perfectly round clearing. All over the world that day meteors struck the ground. One scientist had commented that luckily they landed in isolated areas and caused minimal damage. The blast was so powerful it'd blown Frank's car into the river.
The following week a farmer, Oliver McGee, on whose land the cove was located, used his old Farmall truck to pull the wreckage from the river. He decided the clearing was the perfect place to leave the car, sort of a tribute. Over the years many more dead machines were added to the odd collection, but on that day the car graveyard and the mystique surrounding it were born.
Early summer 1962
Chicago
Growing up part of the baby boomer generation of the 1950's my twin brother Zack and I lived in Chicago until the summer of 1962. School that year was the usual hustling between classes and extracurricular activities. It was our first year of middle school, which was called Jr. High back then. I chose to play football as my activity, and Zack, he joined the math club. Go figure. Zack and I looked alike, but we had very different personalities. Zack was quiet and introverted. I was a wild child always in trouble. Zack like our parents was a neat freak and studious. I was a pig, and a dreamer, never doing very well in school.
Our parents were numbers people. My father was an engineering professor and my mom a mathematician. Can you imagine what it was like being their child? I had trouble doing long division. The only subjects I was any good at were history and English composition. They were horrified. How could a son of theirs be such liberal arts material? If I hadn't looked exactly like Zackery, I'm sure they would have returned me to the hospital, and demand a refund. Our parents, both professors at the University of Chicago gave most of the day, and some nights to their students. Our family always seemed to be in such a hurry. There was little time left for each other, or for us.
So it came as no great surprise, at least to me, when summer vacation of 1962 started off with a bang. It began with a family meeting. Such meetings were common in our house, but this one was different. Zack and I were told unceremoniously, and coldly of our parents impending divorce. There was no, we're sorry, or it'll be ok. Nope, none of that mushy stuff from our mom and dad. But the big surprise was yet to come. The next day we found out we were being sent to live with our maternal grandparents in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My mother said she felt it would be the best thing. I was thrilled. Zack was devastated.
I loved the Upper Peninsula. It's a magical place with warm summers, and snowy winters. Herds of deer graze in fields of Christmas trees. It was an unspoiled land of natural beauty. My childhood memories are filled with life long friendships and family warmth. As far as I'm concerned, our parent's divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never figured they liked me very much anyway; Zack was their golden boy. Our move up north had the opposite effect on Zack. He was a city boy and pretty much a sissy. He was also emotionally cold like my parents and never warmed up to all the love and kindness my grandparents tried to give him. He hated it.
Our grandparents, Poppy and Lil, as they preferred to be called, were wonderful people. We were treated like their own children from the first day. Even as difficult as Zack could be, they never gave up trying to make him feel loved and wanted. It's a shame he never returned the favor. When I think back to those days, I always remember Lil's quick wit and her fascination with Indian traditions. She claimed to be half Micmac Indian, and we always attended at least one powwow each summer. During the summer she also worked in her garden, and taught me how to grow things. When she gardened she always wore her favorite huge hat. It was the biggest hat I've ever seen. When I was a kid I called it her cartoon hat. Then there was Poppy the farmer, who always had a book tucked in his back pocket. You could see him in the field plowing on his tractor, and reading a novel at the same time. They were quite a pair. Everyone should be so happy. I even began to enjoy school. The classes were smaller, and the teachers seemed to really care about you. My teachers and my grandparents encouraged my love of writing.
I felt important for the first time in my life. I also had friends for the first time. In Chicago, I never had any friends. That school year I made three friendships that would last my entire life. The first few weeks at a new school are usually the worse, but that's when I met Ralph, John and Mike. I made other friends as well, but these three guys along with Lil and Poppy, were to become the core of my world. I wish I could say Zack was part of that core, but of his own accord, he was always an outsider, even with me. The guys and I became inseparable, and did everything together. We attended the same classes, went to the same parties, and played sports together. A couple of us even dated the same girls. We called ourselves "The Crew". I don't remember why, but we thought it sounded cool. Zack was never a member of the Crew.
Every summer, The Crew, joined up for a 3-month adventure. We spent every day together. Once in a while we would get into trouble, but mostly we just had fun. We would fish, hunt and hike all summer long. I never understood why Zack and the guys never seemed to hit it off. They tried to be nice to him, but he always acted like an ass. I tried to include him on several occasions, but these usually ended badly. It was no different at school. He just couldn't get along with people. There were a couple of guys that used to f*** with him everyday. Granted, these guys were bullies, but Zack just seemed to bring it out in people. They zeroed right in on him. I often found myself in the middle of a fistfight trying to protect him. Because no matter how big of an ass he could be, he was my brother. Later at home, I would find him alone in his room, but he never cried, never. He would just stare at the ceiling with a look of hate in his eyes. His rage scared me.
Sometimes our mother would come to visit during summer vacation, but more often than not she would call with an excuse. Zack always begged her to take him back to Chicago, but she would say "not this time", "always not this time". He grew to hate her as much as he hated everyone else, including me. Our father never came at all. To her dying day Lil said our parents loved us. I think she said it for us, but she also said it for herself.
That last summer after high school graduation was no different. I pretty much did my thing and he did his. I was preparing to attend Northern Michigan University in the fall, so I could remain close to home. Zack on the other hand got a scholarship to Berkley. He wanted to get as far away as he could. Late one evening I saw the Sheriff's Cruiser pulling up our drive. Zack had already been in trouble a couple times that summer for getting drunk in town. This time he started a fight, but lucky for him the sheriff was Mike's dad. He drove Zack home and warned him not to do it again. To show his appreciation, Zack flipped him off and staggered into the house.
"Sorry." I said.
" What's wrong with you brother?" He asked.
"He's got problems."
"Yep"
A call came over the cruiser's radio and the sheriff drove off quickly with lights flashing. Zack had problems for sure. More than we would ever know.
One day near the end of summer Zack came home from town drunk once again. Trying to stand straight as possible while holding on to the doorframe, he announced, "I enlisted in the Army."
We all stood there unable to speak for a minute. You have to remember it was 1968. The Vietnam War was at its peak.
" Have you lost your mind? What the hell is wrong with you, and what about Berkley?" I asked.
My grandmother started to cry and Poppy just shook his head in disbelief.
"I just want to get far away from this place, and I didn't figure Berkley was far enough," He slurred.
The next week we drove him to the induction center in Marquette.
Summer was over. I started school and Zack started boot camp. Days stretched into weeks. Soon it was midterms. We got regular letters from Zack saying how well he was doing, and how much he like the Army. I figured it was all bullshit. He was miserable; he was always miserable. Then about four months after he got to Vietnam the letters stopped. My brother was reported MIA. Later a telegram arrived saying Zack was killed in action.
His funeral was a closed casket affair. During Vietnam it could take several weeks to get a soldiers remains back to his family. He was buried with military honors in our family plot on Poppy and Lil's farm. I was given his flag, saluted and thanked for his service and that was that. My brother was no more.
One
New Beginnings
I went back to school and finished the semester, the year, and the ones that followed. After graduation I took a job teaching English at a prep school in New England. At least a teaching deferment would keep me out of that damn war. With much sadness I said goodbye to Poppy and Lil.
My teaching position at Stony Brook was right out of a novel, or so it seemed. Located in a pristine area of Maine called Eagle Lake. It reminded me of the U.P.of Michigan. The campus looked like a Norman Rockwell painting or an ad for L.L. Bean. The buildings were turn of the century, and looked like an old college campus with large limestone buildings, and lots of ancient oaks. In many ways it was a great gig. I taught a couple of sections of English composition and had plenty of free time to pursue my writing. I was provided with lodgings and three square meals a day, so I had little to worry about except teaching and writing. If not for the students it could have been a wonderful place.
Many of Stony Brook's students had been tossed out of the finest schools in New England. But, when they came to us accompanied by a rather large donation check that fact was usually overlooked. Like many prep schools of the 20th century; Stony Brook was struggling to survive.
During the academic year I tried to hold on to my sanity while teaching, a bunch of over privileged, self-centered brats the importance of communicating with the written word. What I lived for was summer. Every summer I'd head for the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Going back to Poppy and Lil's farm made the rest of the year bearable. I even enjoyed the eighteen-hour drive. As soon as I crossed the Mackinaw Bridge from Lower Michigan I felt renewed. The fresh scent of pine in the air was invigorating. When I got to Marquette I would stop at the first phone I spotted and call Lil.
"I'm about there." I said.
She would say, " Hurry home; I got supper waitin for you."
I was home.
Poppy and Lil never changed. That's what I adored about them.
Many of my childhood friends were still there. Mike was the sheriff now since Sheriff Trebolt, Mike's dad, died the year before. Ralph was the High School Principal, and John had moved back after he finished med school and took over ole doc Randal's practice. Everyone seemed settled, but me.
The day after I returned that summer of 1974, a Sunday I think, my friends and I did what we do every summer; we went hiking in the woods north of Poppy and Lil's farm. When Mike and Ralph went off the trail to take a piss, John and I stood there on the trails edge. He asked me to come by his office on Monday.
"What for?" I asked.
"Not here, it can wait." John said.
"Why so cryptic man?"
"Not cryptic, just not the right place, Ok?"
"Ok." I said.
Ralph and Mike returned a moment later and we finished the day with a swim in the lake, and hiked back to the farm. When we got back Lil had supper waiting for us, just like always. I spent that evening with my typewriter and the words seemed to flow from my fingers. After a couple of hours I needed a break, so I decided to take a walk. The night was warm and moist and songs of crickets filled the air. A reddish moon was rising over the horizon. Before I knew it I was standing at the foot of my brother's grave. I sat down next to the marker and began to weep.
"Ah hell Zack, why did you do it?"
I guess nobody ever understood Zack, not even me.
"I wish you were here now. I miss you."
After awhile I got up to head back to the house, but felt I wasn't alone. Even the crickets had grown quiet. There was an eerie silence. I looked around but no one was there.
"Poppy...Lil is that you?" No one answered. Then the feeling was gone as quickly as it started. I glanced at my watch; it was well after midnight, and Poppy and Lil had turned in a couple of hours ago. I quietly entered the house taking my shoes off at the door and padded up to my room. The room was dark and I looked out the window. My window faced the old barn and the cornfields beyond. As my eyes adjusted to the total darkness I could swear I saw movement where the barn met the fields, but only for an instant...then nothing.
"Probably a coon or a fox." I thought.
I lay down, not feeling sleepy at all, thinking I would read for a bit. The next thing I knew it was morning.
Oh, the wonderful smells that rose from Lil's kitchen that morning, bacon, fresh coffee, fried potatoes and onions. My stomach was singing. When I got downstairs she had fixed me a plate that could feed three people, but I dove in and ate every last bit.
"God Lil I can't believe I ate all that food."
She just gave me that pleased look and said, "You need a bit of fatting up. Will you be home for supper?"
"You better believe it." I said.
I think that made her day. Lil is one of those women who just love to cook and love to watch others eat. I kissed her goodbye and headed to town to talk to John.
Lil and Poppy's farm was on Old River Road about fifteen miles from town, town being Houghton. Not much more than a village on the tip of the Keweenaw Peninsula, Houghton was home to Michigan Tech...go Huskies!