Copyright © 2018 by Thomas M. Daniel
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-56474-822-5
The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.
Cover photo of Gunflint Lake by Ginnie Daniel. The canoeist is Garret Jelson.
Illustration on title page and chapter openings by Theresa Chung.
Published by Fithian Press
A division of Daniel and Daniel, Publishers, Inc.
Post Office Box 2790
McKinleyville, CA 95519
www.danielpublishing.com
Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Daniel, Thomas M., [date] author.
Title: Lost in a far country : a novel / by Thomas M. Daniel.
Description: McKinleyville, California : Fithian Press, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018039439 | ISBN [first print edition] 9781564746115 (paperback : alk. paper)
Classification: LCC PS3604.A5256 L67 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018039439
For Janet.
She is my bow paddler and sets the stroke.
There was a man who had two sons; and the younger of them…gathered all he had and took his journey into a far country…. But when he came to himself he said…“I will arise and go to my father and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.’”.… But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion and ran and embraced him…. But the father said…let us eat and make merry; for this my son was lost, and is found.
Luke 15:11–24 RSV
Contents
1. Long Day’s Journey
2. Marilyn
3. Preparation
4. Niagara
5. Walter
6. St. Catharines
7. Ontario
8. Storm
9. Island
10. Portage
11. Northward
12. Moose
13. Saganaga
14. Seagull
15. Grand Marais
Afterword
About the Author
1. Long Day’s Journey
Walter Stavitch dropped his frame onto the couch. “The vines look good. They don’t seem to have suffered from the February thaw and freeze. We’ll get a good crop of grapes this year.” He had been out in his vineyard checking on his vines.
“Oh, that’s good,” said Millie, his wife. “We need a good year. The last two were not so hot, and our stock is low.” She filled his glass and topped off hers from the open bottle of Cabernet that sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I like this Cabernet,” she said.
“Come here, my sweet.” Walter reached out and pulled his wife onto his lap. “You’ve put on a couple of pounds,” he said, running his fingers along her thigh.
“Maybe I have, I guess. But I don’t see why. I’m careful about how much I eat.”
“Well, wine has calories.”
“But I don’t drink too much, do I? I just have one glass at lunch and then sip on it during the afternoon.”
Walter nodded, but he knew that the one glass was refilled many times during the course of the day. His wife had a drinking problem, and it disturbed him. But he had no answers for it. He wished he could do something about it, but he did not know how or what. He had tried to talk to Millie, but that had gone nowhere. He kissed his wife.
“Yeah, Millie. You’re doing just fine. Changing the subject, we have to get the vines tied up to keep the grapes off the ground. I’ll get the boys to help after supper. Things are busy at the shop, and I really can’t take time off during the day. Not right now, anyway.”
The Stavitch vineyard had started as Walter’s hobby. At first he sold his grape juice to winemakers in the area. There were several, for this region of Northeast Ohio was favorable for vineyards. All along the shore of Lake Erie and on the glacier-sculpted slopes and ridges rising from the shore, vineyards had been producing grapes for several generations of landowners. Vineyard owners in this region sold Concord and Niagara grapes to Welch, located in the westernmost tongue of New York, to be made into grape juice. Walter, like many of his neighbors in the Grand River region, planted French varietal grapes. French, yes, but grafted onto North American root stock, because the original European vines were susceptible to phylloxera, a plague of vine roots to which American vines were resistant. Varietal grapes took more tending, perhaps, and they had to be picked by hand. The big machines that straddled rows of vines and paddled the grapes off the vines bruised the grapes. Grapes thus harvested could still be crushed into juice. But grapes harvested by machines were not handled gently and lovingly, as they should be to produce fine wines.
Walter Stavitch’s vineyard was his love, but not his living. He owned a small automobile repair shop. Oil changes and lubes for a loyal clientele provided a modest income; occasional calls for repairs or minor body work brought welcome boosts to the garage’s earnings. In an area at the side of the garage he had a small and variable number of secondhand cars for sale—vehicles he had carefully restored. He offered a thirty-day warranty when he sold them. It was a proud boast of his that no one had ever exercised the rights of that warranty. He had purchased the garage ten years earlier, after working for its former owner for two decades. It provided an income sufficient to “put bread on the table, but not dessert,” he often said to his family. He was a competent auto mechanic, a good one, he knew, but his real passion was wine-making. His twelve-acre vineyard was not large, but it produced grapes of several varieties from which he made wines, good wines. His wines had won awards in a number of regional competitions.
Stavitch prided himself on the quality of his wine. “It’s the grapes,” he said to anyone who would listen. “Good grapes make good wine. Anyone can do it, with good grapes.” Good grapes, for Walter Stavitch, meant carefully tended vines and grapes picked just as the sugar content peaked. He used a hydrometer to check the density of the grape juice and thus the sugar content every day as the grapes ripened in the fall. Much as he trusted that measurement, he also carefully examined and tasted the grapes to be sure they were fully ripe. They should have brown seeds and taste more like fruits and less like vegetables.
With a small vineyard and relying on his family and friends to pick the grapes, Walter Stavitch could bring in the fruit when it was just at the optimum point—not when he could schedule migratory workers for the job. And every bunch of grapes could be hand-picked, not bruised by a machine. He had his own equipment for crushing grapes and his own steel vats and oak barrels for fermentation and aging. Every step of the process was watched and carefully nursed by vintner Walter Stavitch. Good grapes also meant good, well-drained, land for the vineyard, low-lying a bit so as to be sheltered from cold winter winds. But not down in a swale where frost would settle. His twelve acres were ideally located.
The Stavitches had built a tasting house at the vineyard, not far from the house in which they lived. The one-room tasting house was decorated so as to suggest an Italian location—or at least Millie and Walter Stavitch’s concept of what an Italian winery would look like. In deference to northeastern Ohio winters, it had a wood-burning stove with comfortable couches in front of it. Tables seating two, four, and six were scattered about the room. A bar at one side let Walter and Millie serve their customers. A deck on the side away from the Stavitch house and opening out from the
tasting room was set up with picnic tables. It overlooked the vineyard and was popular in good weather. Unlike some of the vineyards in the area, the Stavitch tasting house was open only on Friday evenings and Saturdays. Hiring someone to be there at other times would cost more than it would be worth, Walter believed. He faced a problem, however, as Millie was increasingly unable to help out. She blamed this on her arthritis, but Walter knew it was actually because she was more and more often not sober enough to work there. The elder son, Edward, helped; Jack, the younger son, was still too young for the state to allow him to serve wine.
Millie got up from the arm chair to which she had moved from Walter’s lap and went to the pantry. She uncorked another bottle of wine, brought it into the living room, and topped off both of their glasses. She had been drinking since noon, and she was a bit unsteady. “Oh, oh,” she said, “I almost spilled, but I didn’t. I think.”
“You’re okay, Mom,” Walter said.
“Well, you know, my handsome man, the wine helps with the arthritis in my hands. Much better for me than some of the pain pills—Tylenol and Motrin and stuff like that—stuff they sell in the drug store. I take those, but I really, really need my wine to get through the day. I’m so lucky I married a man smart enough to make wine. Not only just make wine, but make really good wine. I like this Cabernet,” she continued. “What’s your favorite wine? Oh, I know, you like white wines. Maybe I’ll go upstairs and rest for a bit before dinner.”
“Okay, Babe. And what’s for dinner?”
Millie Stavitch headed for the stairs. “I dunno. Let’s order pizza.” A bit wobbly, she took hold of the newel post and then the banister as she climbed up, step by unsteady step. Jack, the younger of the two Stavitch boys, met her as he was about to descend the stairs. He gave her his arm and helped her into the bedroom she and her husband shared. He led her to the queen-sized bed, where she fell forward onto the spread.
Jack left her and headed back to the living room, shaking his head. “Dad,” he said to his father, “she’s going to kill herself if she can’t get over the drinking. She’s drunk by the middle of the afternoon almost every day.”
“I know, Son, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve talked to her. I’ve even suggested AA. But she doesn’t see that she has a problem. She says she needs the wine to ease the pain in her hands. Once, not so long ago actually, she didn’t drink so much. She kept the books and did the accounts for the vineyard. And for the garage too. She was working as a bookkeeper when I married her, you know. Fuck! She’s a smart woman—at least, she was. Now she can’t even keep track of the change in her purse.”
“You know, Dad, there are places you could send her where they would get her sobered up and off the wine.”
“Yeah, I know. Spas they call them. They take a lot of your money to dry you out. Fancy places. And then she would come back and start all over again. We run a vineyard. I can’t keep her away from the wine here. And it’s the arthritis that drives her to drink so much.”
“Christ, Dad,” Jack said. “She should see a good doctor, an arthritis specialist. There’s the Cleveland Clinic and there’s University Hospitals. Both are great medical centers. And UH has a big building in Concord, right near Ed’s auto school.”
“Yeah, yeah, easy to say. But those places cost a lot of money. Tests, more tests. Money, more money. And then just take aspirin. We can’t afford that. She’s gone to Dr. Harris in town here. He tells her to keep up the aspirin. Same thing a high-priced specialist would say.”
Walter stood up. “So, I guess we’d better order a pizza. What’ll you have?”
Jack shook his head. “Extra cheese, pepperonis and black olives, I suppose. That’s what we usually have. Every other night, practically, it seems.”
“Don’t complain, Son, she just isn’t up to cooking these days.”
Edward, the elder son, walked into the room, tossing his jacket on the back of the couch. “She drunk again?”
“Yeah,” said Walter. “But she really can’t help it. She does have arthritis, and the wine helps with that.”
“If you say so,” Edward replied. “But it’s destroying her. I can hardly recognize her. I barely remember the mother she was.”
“My fault, I guess,” said Walter, pensively, sadly. “Working full-time and managing the vineyard. I should have spent more time with her. We had such a wonderful life, such a wonderful marriage. Now, this. You know, we traveled together. Even took a cruise once—before you guys came along. Couldn’t afford it after that. Anyway, we did things together. As a family. How did this happen? How could it have happened?”
“Hey, Dad, I bought a car today.” Edward shifted the conversation away from his mother’s problems.
“What!”
“Yeah. A fifty-five T-bird. You know, the original Ford Thunderbird with the port holes for the small back seat.” Edward was obviously proud of this accomplishment. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat backwards in it, resting his chin on his hands, which were folded over the top of the back. “Only fifty dollars! Could you believe?”
Walter was clearly skeptical. “Fifty dollars? What kind of wreck is it? Does it run?”
“Well, sort of. I mean, I think we could fix it up. Another guy from the auto repair school pushed it with his car to start it. It died at every intersection, but he followed me and pushed it again each time.”
So where is this junk heap now?” Walter asked.
“At your garage, Dad. I’m sure—well, I think—we can get it running again.”
“And the body?”
“Not too bad. Mostly a little putty. The rocker panels will need some metal welded in. And then new paint, and it will be gorgeous.”
Walter shook his head. He did not need this project, and he was sure that he would wind up doing more of it than his son. However, he knew that if an original model Thunderbird could be restored and made to run, it would be worth a lot of money. He was intrigued by the project, although it would take more time than he thought he had.
Walter turned to his elder son. “You know, Edward, it was only a week ago that you brought me a mostly rusted out VW. Its motor works, I guess. At least the heap seems to run okay. But it sure needs a lot of body work. I’m busy at the garage. Where will I find time to take on these jalopies you find?”
“You’ll find time. And I’ll help. There’s money to be made fixing up these heaps. And the old VW runs, I think. Just needs some body work and metal put in to patch the floor in front of the passenger seat. Every puddle splashes passengers.”
“Okay, okay, I guess”
Meanwhile, putting aside thoughts of rebuilding an antique car, Walter thought it was time to do something about dinner. Millie was not going to help, and he was too tired to try to cook a dinner himself. Furthermore, he was not much of a cook, and he hated every minute of it when he had to do it.
“Jack, go call and order a couple of large pizzas. Edward, can you throw together a salad? There’s salad stuff in the fridge, I think. And I need a little more wine.”
Walter Stavitch refilled his glass and returned to the couch. Presently the pizzas arrived, and the three of them sat down to dinner. “We should save a couple of pieces for Mom,” Walter said. “Maybe only one, though. That’s all she’ll eat—if that.
“So how was your day at the auto school, apart from buying the junker T-bird?” Walter asked his elder son. Edward, two years out of high school, was studying to be an auto mechanic at a trade school in Concord, not far from their home. Walter expected Edward to join his father in his garage. Before many more years he hoped he could turn over the garage to Edward. Edward was smart, although not much a book-type scholar. Then Walter could leave auto repair behind. Retire and become a full-time vintner, maybe buy more vineyard land.
In fact, Walter was already picking up parcels of land as they became available. The previous week he had taken a bank loan to buy sixty acres on South River Road. It had Concord grapes on it. He could sel
l them for grape juice and make enough to pay down the mortgage, he thought. He would put in varietal grapes, but it took a good five years for a new vineyard to produce. In his mind, Walter had decided that he would wait two or three years, selling the Concord grapes, before starting a new vineyard on the land. Perhaps he should wait until Edward was ready to take over the garage. Then he could devote more time—even full time—to the vineyards.
The Grand River Valley provided a good terroir for vineyards, and as its wines became better known and recognized, the land would increase in value, Walter was certain. Walter had his dreams. He didn’t like to spend money, but land in the Grand River area would surely increase in value. A solid investment. He turned his wandering mind back to Edward.
Edward teased a wedge-shaped piece of pizza free, pinched it to keep it manageable, and bit off the end. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to reply to Walter’s query. “Good. It’s going good. Real good. Especially getting that old T-bird for you. And the stuff they’re teaching is interesting, and mostly I’m getting the hang of it. But some of the things they ask us to read are just confusing. You know, I can see what’s wrong and how to fix it by looking. Reading about it doesn’t work for me.”
“Well, stay with it, Son. As you get along, I’ll find more things for you to do in the garage. You’ll like that.”
“Yeah, like sweeping up! That’s what I mostly did during last summer when I was there.”
“Hold it. Hold it right there. When you’re ready, I’ll take you on as a mechanic. One day it’s going to be your garage, and you’d better know what you’re doing by then. It’s a good business, built on trust. People trust me to do a good job. But it took me many, many years to get there. With that fancy—fancy and expensive, I might add—school you’re in, you have it easy. So read what you have to read, do what they tell you to do, and learn. Learn lots. You have all the advantages. Don’t waste them. Don’t waste the good money we’re pouring into it.”
Lost in a Far Country Page 1
