“Well, I certainly can’t claim to be immune to nice things, but I don’t think it is really the things that cause the problem, it’s more the importance we place on them. After all, it’s just stuff.” They finish selecting their fruits and vegetables and wait in line to pay. A display of homemade preserves, pie fillings, and apple butter is on the counter. Behind the counter, the oldest daughters of the Yoder family are weighing packages and totaling up orders. They probably made all the preserves themselves last fall, thinks Marcie. The older boys are helping their father unload the truck at the back of the tent. The Mennonite religion allows them to drive cars and use electricity, unlike Amish families who don’t use either, but like the Amish, they choose to live in a simpler, more old-fashioned way. They wear plain clothing without zippers and usually make a living as farmers or shop owners, or in a trade such as carpentry. A fairly large community of Amish and Mennonite families lives in northern Indiana, and you often see horse-drawn Amish buggies driven by black-clad bearded men going along the side of the road.
When it is their turn to pay, Rachel Yoder, who’s a few years older than Marcie, checks them out. She is dressed simply in a light blue cotton dress. Her hair is pinned up into a bun and covered by a white cap with the string ties dangling down her back. “How’s your mother, Rachel? I haven’t seen her in a while,” asks Mamaw.
“Very well, thank you,” replies Rachel, smiling. “She’s home today with the youngest since they’re out of school. Hello, Marcie! Are you finished with school, too?” Her grey-blue eyes gaze inquiringly at Marcie, and not for the first time, Marcie is taken by her poise and serenity. Rachel doesn’t seem to have many insecurities. She’s always pleasant and smiling and working hard. Like the rest of her family, she exudes health and contentment. Although Marcie wouldn’t want to live they way they do, given her conversation with Mamaw, she finds herself wondering about whether simpler might be better in some ways.
“Yes, Friday was the last day. My brothers and I are staying with Mamaw and Poppy for a few weeks.”
“Lucky you!” Rachel exclaims without any real envy. “I guess I’ll be seeing you again, then.” She finishes weighing and bagging their purchases, makes change for Mamaw, and turns to the next customer with a friendly smile.
Back in the van, Marcie rolls down her window so Speck can put his head out as they drive. She is still thinking about Rachel and her family, and she can’t help comparing them to Kaitlyn and the Swyndalls. The Swyndalls have so much, but to Marcie, there’s a hollow feeling to it, like trying to fill a bottomless pit. The thing is, she’s not immune to the allure of nice things either, and finds herself both drawn to and repelled by the Swyndalls. The Yoders, although far from poor, make do with much less. Marcie isn’t really sure if the Yoders are happier than the Swyndalls, it just seems like they might be. Maybe she’s romanticizing their way of life. Farming is really hard, never-ending work, and the Amish do everything without modern conveniences like tractors and dishwashers. She is reminded of the conversation with her mom about people not being in touch with the natural world anymore. As farmers, the Yoders must live with the rhythm of nature and the changing seasons. If they don’t take care of the land, it won’t take care of them.
Marcie thinks about James Woods and how much they will all miss its natural setting and the wildlife that lives there and in the shallows of the bay. If it is turned into a gated housing development where wealthy people can build exclusive vacation homes, something special will be lost forever.
Twelve
THE BACK DOOR to Al’s cottage is closed, which is unusual if he’s at home. Eric checks his watch and says, “It’s 9:15. Maybe he’s not home. He’s always up by now and he told us to come over after nine. Should we knock?”
“Yeah, I think we should,” Marcie replies, and gives the screen door three sharp raps with her knuckles. They hear Al call out faintly, “Just a minute.” They glance at each other, and Marcie gives a little shrug as if to say ‘I don’t know any more that you do.’ When Al finally does open the door, they are surprised to see he’s still wearing his pajamas and bathrobe. Pansy is hugging very close to his side.
“Hi, kids,” he says, running a hand through his sparse hair to smooth it down. “I don’t think I can make our outing just yet. I had a rough night, and I think I’ll just putter around this morning. How about going after lunch?”
“Are you sick? Is there anything we can do?” Marcie asks, concerned.
“No, not sick, just old,” says Al, making light of it. “I’ll be better in a little bit. Pansy’s taking good care of me.” He fondles her ears. “In fact, she won’t leave me alone!” He turns to go back into the house. “I’ll be out after lunch, and then we’ll go.”
“Okay,” Eric says. “I hope you feel better.” They walk back to the cottage.
In the kitchen, Mamaw is just finishing putting away the groceries from the market. Marcie sits down on a stool, “Mamaw, we just went over to Al’s and he wasn’t even dressed yet. He said he had a bad night. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know if he’s actually ill, but he does seem to be short of breath occasionally. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It could just be old age. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
But Marcie is worried. It’s hard to see the people you love getting older and more feeble. She’s known Al all her life. Now she feels at loose ends since their plans have changed. Eric took Drew and went to shoot baskets with the boy next door, but that’s not really her thing. Maybe she’ll take the sunfish out for a sail. It will be the first of the season and will give her some time alone to think. “I’m going to take the sunfish out for a bit,” she says, as she slides off the stool to the floor.
“That’s a good idea. Poppy got it all ready for you last week. It’s rigged and ready to go at the dock.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel. “Have fun.”
After changing into her suit and getting a life jacket out of the shed, Marcie is quickly down at the dock unsnap-ping the cover on the sail boat. The mast, sail, and boom are lying across the top of the boat, and inside the tiny cockpit are the centerboard, rudder, and a paddle. The boat is only 14 feet long and is comfortable for one sailor but a bit tight for two. She attaches the rudder to the stern of the boat and, while standing on the dock, slips the mast into the socket in the bow of the boat. The metal boom, which anchors the bottom edge of the sail, is attached to the mast with a metal ring and extends out toward the stern or back of the boat. Marcie climbs on board and arranges the boom and sail on the deck in front of her. She will paddle out past the marker buoys a ways to avoid getting blown back to shore or encountering too many boats before raising the sail.
Fortunately, it isn’t too wavy, so she easily maneuvers the light craft out past the boat traffic. Before raising the sail, she checks to make sure she has the main sheet loosely cleated to the boat so it doesn’t blow out of her reach if the sail catches the wind. The main sheet is the rope, or line in sailing terms, that controls the mainsail via the boom. On the sunfish it is the only line on the boat, and Marcie will sail with the tiller and the main sheet. Then she inserts the center board through a slit in the bottom of the boat so it protrudes underneath to provide stability. She checks to see that there are no boats around and then hoists the sail to the top of the mast and fastens the rope to a cleat on the deck. It catches the breeze immediately and Marcie pulls in the line until the sail is full and she can feel the boat start to glide through the water. She’s sailing!
It is quiet on the boat, but there are still plenty of sounds. The thump of the hull as it hits and slices through each wave, the splash of the water falling away from the sides of the boat, the cawing of the gulls, and the rush of the wind. Up close you can see that the water isn’t one solid color, but a constantly changing, moving pattern of shadow and light, dark green, pale green, silver and white. In the distance she can hear speed boats and people laughing, and although she is alone, she’s not lonely.
&
nbsp; She lets the wind take her with no particular destination or course in mind. It is coming over the starboard or right side of the boat. When she gets too close to boat traffic she decides to change direction and come about so the wind is coming over the port side of the boat and she is going back in the opposite direction. She pushes the tiller board to the right to turn the bow of the boat left, and at just the right moment she swings the boom across the boat, ducks underneath it, moves her position to the opposite side, pulling in the main sheet to fill the sail with wind. She traverses across the water this way in a series of zig zags. It’s another hot day, but the deck is only a few inches off the water, so Marcie is regularly splashed with cool spray coming off the hull of the boat. The rhythm of sailing casts its spell over her, and she is completely immersed in experiencing the wind, water, and motion of the boat. She doesn’t realize that she has sailed into James Bay until she looks up and sees the trees of James Woods across the water.
Surprised, Marcie thinks, maybe I unconsciously headed in this direction when I thought I was just sailing aimlessly. She realizes that this is the second time she’s been drawn to James Bay since arriving at the cottage. The first time was in her dream, and now it happened while she was totally focused on sailing. And then yesterday while they were fishing, she kept having those funny feelings of someone watching her. Okay, she thinks, why not just go with it? She sails further across the bay to the reeds in front of the woods. Since it’s Monday morning there isn’t much boat traffic, just a few fishing boats. She lowers the sail and folds it on the deck with the boom. Now what? Maybe I should sit here quietly and see what happens. She leans back against the mast, closes her eyes, and tries to empty her mind. Nothing happens at first, but after a few minutes she feels herself becoming more relaxed and a little drowsy. Her thoughts are floating in and out. Then, instead of her thoughts, she starts seeing images. At first they are hazy and unclear. Gradually, she sees people dressed in leather tunic-like clothing, maybe animal skins, performing a sort of ceremony. They are sitting on a semi-circular raised area in a clearing by the shore of a lake surrounded by trees on three sides. She sees earthenware pots and smoke gently rising from a fire in the center of the grouping. Marcie gets a sense that this is a religious or spiritual ceremony. One person in particular catches her attention. A girl about Marcie’s age is on the edge of the group. Her long dark hair is fastened with a leather cord at the back of her neck and a copper-colored bracelet encircles the upper part of her slender arm. She’s not actually looking at Marcie, but somehow Marcie feels like the girl is aware of her. Then the girl turns and looks directly at Marcie as though she can see her. Marcie feels a frisson of recognition. Is it the girl from the maze and the mirror? They make what feels like eye contact, and Marcie senses the girl trying to communicate with Marcie through her thoughts.
The roar of an engine shatters the calm and pulls Marcie out of her semi-dream state. She opens her eyes and sees the fishing boat that had been anchored nearby moving away. She is still partly in her dream-like state and has a vivid picture of the scene in her mind. The girl was trying to tell her something. Had she also tried to communicate with her through her dream? Could she be the same girl from the maze? Just now she got a sense of some message. Something about James Bay and James Woods, but what? She tries to regain the image, but it is gone. She looks out at James Woods and sees only trees.
What is it all about? she wonders. They were obviously an ancient people, judging by their clothing and tools. Why did she see those images? How could it be that she saw them? And most importantly, how is it that she felt she could communicate with the girl? Is she imagining things?
It certainly felt real. As real as sitting in the boat right now. Just like her dream from the other night. Is this girl from an ancient time trying to help her somehow? Or maybe it is her overactive imagination trying to find a solution to the problem of James Woods Estates. The people in her vision were seated on a low circular mound near the shore of what Marcie assumed was Lake Pappakeechee. It is all somewhat unsettling and brings more questions than answers.
She shakes her head to remove the last remnants of her daydream, and hoists the sail for the trip back home. When she reaches her grandparents’ dock, she is still no closer to making sense of it all, but she knows that somehow what she is experiencing is real. Her sixth sense is picking up something about these people. She doesn’t seem to be able to control it or make sense of it yet.
She can only hope and believe that things will add up soon.
Thirteen
THAT AFTERNOON, AL drives Eric and Marcie to the Department of Planning and Development in town in his ancient wide-track Pontiac sedan. Al is a careful driver—perhaps too careful. He drives so slowly he is almost a menace to the other drivers by disrupting the normal flow of traffic. Marcie notices several cars stop abruptly to avoid him or pull out to try to pass his slow-moving vehicle. There are a couple of near misses to which Al is oblivious, but they get there without an accident. Inside the building, they approach a long counter with a middle-aged man dressed in khakis and a blue button-down shirt seated at a desk just beyond it. Rows and rows of filing cabinets fill the room. He sees them come in and rises, reaching across the counter to shake Al’s hand.
“Hello, Al, how’ve you been? Hey, kids,” he says as they shake hands.
“I can’t complain, Bob. These bones have a lot of mileage on them, but I’m holding up pretty well. How’re things with you?”
“’Bout the same. Been doing much fishing?”
“Yup. Caught some nice blue gills over off the south shore by the new condos the other day. They were biting good.”
Listening to this exchange, Marcie wonders how long it will take for Al to get down to business and ask about the zoning permits for James Woods. She rolls her eyes at Eric, but he shrugs, seeming content to let the men go through the social pleasantries. After being reprimanded for being impatient before they went fishing the other day, he must have gotten on Lake Time. Marcie taps her fingers on the counter in an effort to speed things up.
“I’ll have to try that spot. What brings you by today?”
“We’ve been hearing some rumors about development plans for James Woods. Don Swyndall says they’re planning to develop it into a nature park, but we heard there might be more to it than that. Do you know anything about it?”
“Actually, I was hoping someone would come around asking about it. I tried to give you some hints the last time I saw you. As a commission employee, I can’t really comment or take action on the permits we issue, but the permits are a matter of public record. This one hits a little too close to home. I played in James Woods as a child, and so did my children. I hope it will still be around for my grandchildren to play there.” He turns to the nearest filing cabinet, opens a drawer and searches for a file.
“I remembered what you said the other day and tried to pin Swyndall down when I saw him at the Hortons’ house, but he was very vague about his plans.”
“We heard they are planning to build a gated community of Estate Homes—in James Woods,” Marcie says indignantly.
“What can we do to stop them?” asks Eric.
Bob finds the file he is looking for. “Building and development permits are a matter of public record.” He lays the file open on the counter. “The initial plans do call for development of a park with walking and biking trails and picnic areas with very little disturbance to the existing forest. Then in stage two, which is carefully buried in the permit, development of a large and exclusive gated community is planned—James Woods Estates.” He pauses and looks at Eric. “I’m not sure what we can do to stop them. James Woods is privately owned and only needed minor rezoning to allow for multiple homes. The public hearing about the rezoning took place early this spring, and no opposition was voiced. Of course, no one really knew about the hearing either.”
“What about wetlands or wildlife habitats? It’s really marshy there, and the woods are full of
birds and animals. The lagoons back home are protected because it’s a wet-land area,” says Eric hopefully.
“That’s not really my area of specialty. You’d need to contact the Department of Natural Resources, but I do know that there are ways around the wetlands issue. There are specific criteria that need to be met to qualify as wet-lands, and only a small portion of the site is marshy anyway. It’s mostly woods. I would think the Lake Area Conservation Society would have already identified it as wet-lands if it qualified.”
“So what course of action can we take?” asks Al.
“You could try to get public opinion against it. I’ve seen that stop development before.”
“You mean start a petition or something?” asks Marcie.
“Yes, a petition could work. Right now, no one knows what he’s really planning. If you raised public awareness, maybe people would oppose it. That kind of pressure can work, but Swyndall still can do what he wants to with the land even in the face of public opposition.”
“I could get a petition together and make posters,” says Eric enthusiastically. “We could go door to door and get signatures.”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up about a petition, but it’s worth a try. Really, the best way to stop any development in James Woods is to get it classified as a cultural or historical resource. Cultural Resources are actually owned by the state even if they are on private land. They are much more strongly protected than wetlands or wildlife.”
“What’s a cultural resource?” asks Eric.
“Anything that is of historical significance to Indiana, like a pioneer settlement—”
“Or an Indian ceremonial site?” says Marcie quietly.
Indian Summer Page 7
