by Dave Balcom
About then, a woman of my age or there about, came into the kitchen, “Mike, I can smell those muffins from across the street…”
I excused myself, and retreated to my room. When I tiptoed down the stairs a few minutes later, the hen party in the kitchen was in full swing. I headed for my Jeep, looking for a stroll in the woods. Mickey’s death and the changes in Mineral Valley were the farthest things from my mind.
10
The house was one of those old jobs on the highway coming into town, built overlooking the river back in the 1950s, updated with city water and electricity, but still offering the charm and coziness of pine needles on the roof and walkway.
A gravel driveway led me right to the back door. The storm door was open to the unseasonably warm evening.
The guy at the liquor store told me how to find the house as well as telling me, with a wry chuckle, that Jan’s favorite red wine was a cabernet paid for by someone else. Armed with a decent cab and a bag of about 50 morels, I knocked on the screen door at just six.
“Punctual and bearing morels, too?” She was dressed in slacks and a blouse, middle tall, maybe 5-8, and middle slim. She had gray hair and blue eyes that danced behind gold rimmed glasses. Her voice was middle throaty, like maybe she had just a bit too much scotch and too many cigarettes in her past.
“Come in, did you pick these yourself or did you just hustle Big Mike for a skillet full of fungi?”
I had, in fact, found a healthy bag full of the small, dark beauties in a place where maybe 35 years before my dad and I had shot grouse. It just sprang up in my memory as I drove the two-track fire trail towards the river. It had been logged off some 10-15 years earlier, and the new stand of poplar trees had given me all these mushrooms and the sound of drumming “pat.” Now I was meeting an attractive, self-made woman for dinner – quite a day it was turning out to be.
“Ok, who told you where I lived?”
“The guy at the liquor store.”
“And he made the crack about any cabernet that I didn’t have to pay for?”
“You know him well, too?”
“Like a book.”
The house was simple and straight forward. A long room with fireplace and comfortable chairs and couches ended in a door that would probably lead to a bedroom. A “front door” that, if ever used, would lead to the mini yard that separated the hill up to the road from the house, was adjacent to the bedroom door.
Just inside the screen door, that “front” room opened up on your left. On the other side of the fireplace wall, was first the dining table with huge windows opening onto a deck overlooking the river. Beyond that, was the kitchen, about one third the size of the kitchen at the inn. You could empty the dishwasher and put away the dishes without taking more than two steps in any direction.
Another screen door led to the deck which at that end was enclosed in screen. At the far end of the kitchen was another closed door that could lead to bedroom or bath.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty-five years counting the time I rented it. I bought it ten years ago. Let me give you the quick tour before everyone else gets here.”
“Everyone else?”
“Chaperones. A gal has to be careful with her reputation, you know. I asked Julie Rathers and her husband, Ken, to join us for dinner. Julie is the managing editor at the paper, been with us for three years now. Ken works for the DNR as a biologist.”
The closed door off the kitchen led into a hallway that ran the width of the building, with two tiny bedrooms bracketing a tiny bathroom – stool, lavatory and shower. It was all contained and neat.
“The place is warm in the winter, cool in the summer without air conditioning, and it takes little time for cleaning. Its best feature is that it has nothing that gets in the way of the porch.”
It was then that I noticed the deck was screened in from the door to the kitchen end of the building.
Without asking, she built two Manhattans on the rocks. “I call these Bookmarks,” she said as she handed me my drink. “Perfect Manhattan using Maker’s Mark for the bulk of the whiskey, but just a half shot of Booker’s to smooth it out. I only serve them to literary people.”
We sampled the drinks, and I liked it too much.
“When did you go to Central?” I asked.
“I was about four years behind you, the second time you went and the second time I went,” she said. “Graduated in eighty-one.”
“Was Professor Hines still there then?”
“Yes, he retired in eighty. I had him for introductory reporting, ethics, history and law. He taught those four classes every year until he retired. That kept him in touch with each class every year. He was very important to me. He died just last year.”
I was about to suggest we go to the porch when I heard a car arrive on the gravel.
“Good, they’re here. We’ll set them up with drink, start the charcoal and this production will be underway. You want to share these ’roons?”
“Do you? They’re yours now.”
The Rathers were in their late 30s. Ken was tall and thin with the ruddy complexion of a man who spends as much time outdoors as possible. Julie was thin as well. She was shorter than Jan by a half a foot or more. Her brown hair was cropped short and she moved her head a lot while she talked, an animated woman who exuded self confidence in her every gesture.
They had brought a tossed salad and a loaf of bread.
As Jan served their drinks we were ushered out to the porch where Jim and I immediately started trading fishing stories from our time on the Big Manistee. I could hear Jan moving around in the kitchen, and Julie kept an eye on the charcoal out on the deck.
Within minutes I found myself comfortable with these folks who were so comfortable with each other and their place.
After dinner we sat on the porch and sipped coffee – decaf so the working press could sleep in preparation for “production day” on Wednesday.
“You big city daily guys don’t understand production day at a weekly,” Julie said jokingly. “You don’t realize that for us, it’s the culmination of that week’s mission. We put it together from scratch, send it off into the ether of the Internet, and then bite our nails until it comes back as a printed reality in the early hours of Thursday morning.
“It’s a big deal for all of us, every week.”
As night fell around us, I answered their questions about my career with as little embellishment as possible. I reminded myself of how much I hated it when journalists from out of town would come to my patch and let on as if they had written for Gutenberg and what would the local types want from this fountain of knowledge. I wasn’t going to be that out of town expert.
“I heard you speak at the Inland Press Association annual meeting in Chicago ten years ago,” Julie said. “I was working for a corporate group then, and I had the Inland folks send me a tape of your talk. I copied it and sent it to all of the editors in my group. It wasn’t my best career move.”
I thought a minute and then recalled the talk. It was after the newspaper had won some prestigious awards. It was an arrogant performance, I thought afterwards. The nut of the message was that a newsroom was a part of the profit center, and not an expense that could be whittled away to make short term gains on the P&L statement.
“Oh, yeah, I bet that was a real big hit with your bosses.”
“My publisher sent me a nice thank you note for the tape. Then he added that because we were behind plan for the quarter, he was freezing open the four spots on my news team until further notice.”
“All the excellence you aren’t willing to pay for,” Jan piped up. “Their loss; Mineral Valley’s gain.”
“There are still group- and family-owned newspapers out there that care about the mission as well as profitability,” I said. “But remember, the real key to the freedom of the press we all brag about is profit.”
Both women shared a look, but I went on. “You can’t truly be free if you
have to have government subsidy or if your market is so thin that one disenchanted advertiser can pull its ads and put you out of business. I have no quarrel with profitable newspapers; I just think there should be some question at the highest levels about how much is enough.”
“Amen,” Ken said. “Jan here raises that question. She hasn’t found the answer yet, but at least she’s asked the question.”
Julie nudged the subject slightly. “It’s just like Penny Point. There has to be someone on the development side that looks past the dollar signs and sees what that development will do to the quality of life that has been Mineral Valley’s heritage.
“This place isn’t cut out to be some enclave for the rich and famous. It’s always been about people who care to be here, who live to be here to live.”
Ken tilted his head a bit. “On the other hand, love, we have to avoid the NIMBY syndrome. Are we only passionate about this development because we fear that when all those rich people arrive, we won’t be at the top of the economic or social food chain in our own backyard?”
She gave him that look that wives seem to master everywhere, that tolerant, “I’ve heard this song before” look that is akin to patting us guys on the head. “You’re right, Ken. But I don’t think three hundred twenty-five deluxe estates and twenty multimillion dollar villas fit the Mineral Valley of today, and it certainly doesn’t fit the Mineral Valley of Jim’s day. Does it?”
I hesitated, and then forged ahead, “Well, before we go too far in this discussion, I have to point out that Mickey Buchanan, whose personal dream it was to build Penny Point is, er, was an old friend of mine.
“I’m kind of here right now because of him.”
The room went quiet.
“Are you an investor?” Jan asked.
“Oh, no. I went to a celebration of Mickey’s life last weekend. To come back to Michigan after all this time, well… I figured I’d just do a little memory tour… I hadn’t seen Mickey for thirty years, but we were close once, when we were young.
“I know he loved this country. I have trouble reconciling his development with the guy I know loved the wildness this area represented to him.”
Ken stepped in, “Ladies, I don’t think we should judge Mr. Stanton too harshly for having a skeleton of Mickey Buchanan’s proportions in his closet.”
We all laughed at that and the Rathers started making moves to leave.
“I should go too,” I said.
“You don’t have to just yet,” Jan said. “I still need more for my column next week.”
“A guy has to be careful of his reputation. It gets around he doesn’t know when to leave, and he might not find himself getting that many more invites. Tell you what, why don’t you let me take you to dinner after work tomorrow? It can’t be as good as this, but I hear Schaeffer’s is a good spot.”
“You can’t pass that up,” Julie said to her boss. “Guy’s talking about taking you to the hot artichoke and spinach dip capital of the north.”
“That good?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Secret recipe handed down with a blood oath of secrecy from generation to generation of Schaeffers since the nineteen fifties. It’s outstanding.”
“Well, what do you say? Pick you up here about six?”
11
When I drove into Jan’s driveway on Wednesday evening, a steady drizzle that had been promised all day finally arrived.
I had spent the morning walking through the spec house out at the Penny Point site, and talking with the agent assigned to discuss the plans for the project.
She had obviously been selected for her eye-appeal because she didn’t have a clue about the hard issues of the development or the benefits of investing. She was all about fun, and she was built for it, too.
“Did you know Mr. Buchanan?” I asked her.
“I met him, once. Back when I was interviewing for this job. He seemed nice. It was a shame, you know, him dying like that.”
“Did you meet Mrs. Buchanan?”
“She hired me. She’s the boss at Next Cool Place, you know.”
“I had read that. She hired you herself?”
“Yes. She’s very professional.”
Professional, I understood was code for something like “ice cold bitch” among women in business.
I picked up a brochure that included directions for a self-guided tour of the entire operation and decided to see what I could.
The two golf courses, one running downstream on the creek, the other running upstream, met at the “member’s house” which was described as a 14,000 square foot facility that included both members and visitors locker rooms, a day spa, an athletic club with an Olympic pool and a 3,000-square-foot pro shop in the summer and ski shop in the winter.
Back along the road, some four miles up from the spec villa, there was a “shanty town” of sorts on the west side of the road.
There were a bunch of fifth-wheelers, motor homes and campers on pickup trucks parked wagon train style around a huge fire pit and some picnic tables.
I pulled in and parked. In a few seconds, a middle-aged woman wearing jeans and a plaid shirt came out of one of the fifth wheelers and approached my Jeep.
“Help you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m looking at investing in this project, and was surprised to see this caravan parked here. Is this permanent?”
She blushed a bit. “Lord, no. We’ll all be gone when the courses are finished and the villas are built.” Her voice had a southern twang to it.
“You from Arkansas?” I asked.
“How’d you know that?”
“I heard a little rock in your accent,” I said with a smile.
“I’ve been up here for next to twenty-five years, and people still hear the cotton.”
“You’ve been building golf courses for twenty-five years?”
“Lordy, no. We came up here to drill oil wells, but that’s kinda gone south ‘because the price of oil has been so low, so Buzz, that’s my husband, Buzz hooked up with a construction company. He drives heavy equipment. He’s grading fairways on this job.”
We talked for a few minutes about what a scenic place this was for a development, and agreed that people would be lucky to make this their address when the project was done. The drone and whine of heavy equipment was constant in the background, drowning out the usual noises of the north woods.
Then it was back to my vacation plans, and a long walk in the woods. The morel gods were kind again, and I had another sack of the beauties in hand as I knocked on the door to Jan’s home.
The drive to the restaurant was scenic even in the gloaming of a wet sunset, and Jan was full of talk about that week’s edition, going through the normal post-production review of what worked and what hadn’t.
It was fun to hear that kind of talk after so long away from the business. She was a harsh critic of her own work, but was very gentle where the rest of her staff was concerned.
“We have a real good story this week, good news for the good guys in the area.”
“Really? New employment or new business?”
“Not exactly. We have a story about how the Penny Point folks may be re-thinking their commitment to Mineral Valley, and that would be terrific, I think.”
“It’ll sure make Big Mike happy,” I said, “but didn’t the widow vow to keep her husband’s dream alive?”
“What do you know about this story, Mr. Big City Journalist?”
“Not much,” I said, keeping the tone light. “As I told you last night, I knew Mickey Buchanan quite well when we were young, but we drifted apart as people do, and last Saturday I went to a wake in celebration of his life, heard about this development and decided to come up and see what had become of the Mineral Valley of my youth.”
“So you know the widow?”
“Only by reputation. She wasn’t at the wake, and none of them were surprised.”
“They were a strange pair, all right. Mickey had been
up here, had a place out on Copper Creek Road, you know, at the edge of the national forest, along the Copper? You know where I mean? It was just a little place, not like the enclave down stream from him, and he was here two, three times a summer and came up for deer every year.
“We didn’t know much about him, other than he was funny and pleasant. He shot a pretty good game of pool and a major league brand of B.S. Held his liquor well for as much as he drank, and well, he was just a nice guy from down state.
“Then he starts buying up that property where the Copper makes the big bend and before long, he owned all the land from the chain link to the forest boundary… took to calling it Penny Point, and talked about making it into a special retreat for wealthy people who like the outdoors.”
“He was married then to Ginny?”
“Yep, she and Seth, their son, came up every summer, and they fished and played around. They were just a nice family, you know?
“Then all of a sudden he’s alone, working here all the time, working his development through the system. Then Charlotte shows up. What a difference. That’s one cold character, I’ll tell you, but Mickey was plain smitten. You could see him trailing her around like a buck in rut.”
We drove into the restaurant parking lot and I couldn’t help but look at the rustic log building that had represented the only way station on this stretch of M-66 for all my life. Many a time my dad had stopped to quench a thirst here, and back in the day I too had had a few beers and burgers at the bar next to the Big Manistee.
This wasn’t my father’s Schaeffer’s, however.
We were met at the door by a very sharp young woman who was married to the chef who was the latest in a long line of Schaeffers.
“Hi, Jan; it’s good to see you,” the hostess smiled warmly. “I have a great table for you tonight, here by the windows. There’s a bunch of people in the bar and they’re pretty loud, so I think you’d like to be out here.”
