by Dave Balcom
“Which room was yours?”
“Neither of those. I had a room facing the backyard. It had a window but smaller than those. It was on the left side of the house as we look at it here; the bathroom was on the right. The stairs came up between them. My room had a single bed and an upright dresser. There was a bedside table and a lamp. There wasn’t a mirror there, but I didn’t need one...”
I let her sit there and I knew she was remembering her life in that world. “Are you remembering happy times in that house?”
“There were no happy times in that house. I only remember the disappointment. My folks weren’t happy with each other...”
“How old were you when you realized that?”
She didn’t answer for quite a while then stirred herself with a shake, “Maybe 30...”
I raised an eyebrow at that, but kept my peace. She let the silence drag and I thought she was framing another thought, “I always thought they were disappointed in me.”
“Whatever for?”
“They were so beautiful and I was so not beautiful; they were bright, engaging and outgoing; I was so not any of that...” She let her voice trail off for a few more minutes, and then resumed, “And there was the jazz...”
“Instead of the classics?”
She released a deep sigh, “I was fourteen and the minister at the church had given me permission to practice on the grand piano they had downstairs. I was often alone in that church after school, and I had discovered music that moved me more than the classics ever had. And then I discovered the organ upstairs...” Her voice trailed off again.
“You taught yourself to play the organ?”
“Oh, yeah,” she was whispering now, as if she were sharing some deep, dark secret. “It’s not that much different, once you understand how it works. It’s still a keyboard, but oh, what a sound; you can’t imagine “Straighten Up and Fly Right” on that instrument with the windows rattling and the bowl and cup on the Lord’s table bouncing. It was amazing...”
“What happened?”
“Oh, one of the ladies of the church happened by one night, and heard it from the street. Made a huge deal about it; demanded I not be allowed to play there any more. My folks were mortified. The preacher told me it was no big deal and even laughed about it, but after that I only played in the church on Sundays.
“Jazz at home was taboo, too. I was grounded for a month, but that just meant I couldn’t go to the library after school or on weekends – it wasn’t as if I had dates or anything.”
“Is that why you moved out so young?”
“Pretty much, when I told my mom that I had a job at Annie’s playing piano on weekends, she told me I had to choose between having a Christian home or a life of sin. I packed and left that afternoon.”
We sat there silently for another fifteen minutes.
“Where are they now?”
“Daddy died while I was at Central, the second time. I heard he was sick; came running home to see him. He was upstairs in his bed, and my Aunt Evelyn, his sister, was taking care of him. My mother had moved to her parents’ home in Alpena.
“Evelyn made a fuss about my showing up, yelling and screaming at me, but I went up to see him anyway. He was awake and didn’t look all that sick to me. He recognized me, but he didn’t smile or acknowledge me in any way other than to ask what I wanted.
“I pulled a chair close to him and said, ‘Hi, Daddy. How’re you doing?’
“He looked at me closely, like he was inspecting me, and then his eyes squinted just a bit,” She changed her voice, sounding, I thought, like her memory of her father’s baritone, ‘What do you want, Jan?’
‘“I just wanted to see you; I heard you were sick...’ she was replaying the conversation in two voices.
“‘I’m sick. I was sick before you showed up, and I’ll be sick after you leave...’
‘“I’m sorry...’
“He cut me off, ‘No, you’re not; you’re steeped in sin, and you bring the stench of it with you wherever you go. I have nothing for you.’ And he turned his head away from me.”
“Wow!” I whispered; “Really?”
She had a frown as she nodded, “Evelyn followed me out the front door as I left; she wasn’t yelling, it was more like a hiss, as if to make sure the neighbors wouldn’t hear, but she was calling me a tramp, harlot, all kinds of nineteenth century stuff... I drove away and stopped around the corner and cried for what seemed like an hour.”
“What about your mom?”
“I never saw her again after I moved out. Her sister, my Aunt Irene, wrote me a note. I had just started the Record, and it was a plain white piece of tablet paper, I kept it for years until it burned with my house. But I can still see it and the stains of the tears that splashed on it... ‘Dear Jan, I tried and tried to have Marta contact you, make peace, but it wasn’t to be, and I’m sorry. Marta has found her peace, and will be buried in the family plot here in Alpena. As per her wishes there will be no funeral, observance or ceremony, but other than me, and maybe you, I don’t know who would have come. I hope you’ve found happiness in your life, and I would love to see you and hear about it.’” Her voice trailed off and she started the truck.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“Let’s just drive around, see what there is to see.”
“Lead on, my Lady.”
But it only took minutes to see all of Stoney from the car, and we quickly parked and started walking. I went into interview mode with every clerk, shopper or business person I could find. It was a grand way to spend a day, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.
Stoney, I knew from Google, had an aging population of 3,472 in the 2010 census with less than one percent Native American; rest all white; 52 percent female. Median household income of $38,000.
What we saw and heard told me a whole lot more about Stoney 2015. The town’s real estate is neatly divided between owner-occupants and non-resident owners. All of the village’s commercial buildings are owned by non-residents. The bank building has three ATMs and two full-time employees; the post office has four employees, two are part time. There is a small general store that features groceries, including fresh meat and seasonal fresh fruits and vegetables. The rest is canned, boxed, bottled, or special ordered. It also has hardware, apparel, bait ’n’ tackle, guns ’n’ ammo, and alcoholic beverages, including a pretty fair selection of domestic and imported wines.
There are two restaurants; a cafe on main street and Annie’s, a roadhouse-like establishment along the river that shares the city’s name. There are three churches, Catholic, Baptist, and Methodist; an insurance office; a beauty parlor; a barber shop; the library, open five to seven p.m. Monday, Wednesday, Friday and noon to two p.m. on Saturday; the Stoney County Historical Museum; and a VFW Hall – all located on three blocks of Main Street.
“What was it like in 1980?” I asked Jan.
“Not much different; in the summer the population nearly doubled and all the businesses did well. There were three resorts nearby or on the river; only the Skeegmog Inn remains today.”
At the general store, I met the owner. “Are you Mr. Ralph?” I asked, pointing at the sign in the window declaring this as ‘Ralph’s General Store.’
“No, I’m not Ralph. My name’s Art Hill.” We shook hands and I introduced myself. “I bought the store in 1999, when I thought I was rich enough to retire. Love it up here, and figured the store would keep me in beer, bait and bullets.”
“And that’s working out?”
He gave a shrug and said, “It pays the taxes and gives me a roof over my head, but since the crash crushed my IRA it’s pretty tough going, and places like Stoney are threatened if not on the endangered list...”
“I see that, but I don’t understand the why of it. This is still a very popular place, isn’t it?”
“For some, but the real money has gone away from sleepy, homey places, and then there’s the state’s highway patterns, the decline in timber activity
in the Federal Forest, and the extensive attractions developed east, west, and north – they’ve all combined to leave Stoney and small towns like it drying up like neglected grapes.
“What brings you folks to town?”
I explained Jan’s purpose, and he nodded. “Well, that’s just part of the dying breed syndrome. As the families of child-bearing age outgrew it or were forced to abandon their slice of paradise, the school merged with nearby towns of similar circumstance.
“They all kept their K-3 classes; one town took the 4-6 classes, another the 7-9 school, and Stoney kept the high school because of its superior facilities for athletics, music and arts.
“As Stoney’s school-age population continued its free fall, eventually it was sending no children to any of the schools and the whole thing ended parceled up between Mancelona, Kalkaska and Traverse City.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“I’m not sure, but I know that five-dollar-a-gallon gas will have some impact on it. And as the glitter of those new attractions fades, I hope someday there’ll be a younger family looking for sanity over mall shopping, and I’ll sell this place. Otherwise, it’ll be just me and a handful of others too old and too poor to move, and we’ll just have all this God-given beauty to ourselves.
“You fish and hunt? You’d love this place.”
That reminded me, “You sell out of state licenses here?”
“Small game or fishing?”
“Small game; whatever I need to hunt woodcock and grouse for a few days.”
“It’s pricey.”
“You sell ’em?”
He smiled and went to the other side of his three-sided counter. “Step right over here with your driver’s license...”
From there we went down the street, noting that the bank and Stoney Historical Museum were next door to each other.
“Was this here when you were?” I asked, nodding at the museum door.
“I’m sure it was.” She tried the front door and found it locked. There was a note in the corner of the window, “Off Season, Open by Appointment Only. During business hours, contact Angela Ritter at the bank next door; otherwise call” and there was a number.
Jan came back to me with a strange little smile on her face.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No. It’s just, well, we need to go to the bank.”
“What’s up?”
She pointed at the door. “It says Angela Ritter at the bank can let us into the museum... I graduated with an Angela Ritter. She was one of the class officers... Come on.”
“You remember her?”
“Just the name. I have no memory of what she looked like. I’d love to have a yearbook, but that too went up in smoke when those fools torched my house. I don’t remember what she looked like at all.”
“How do you remember her?”
“By name; nothing else registers – totally forgettable.”
The bank was devoid of customers and we found two women sitting at a table located behind a counter in the back of the room. The building was much larger than its needs today, and the vestibule area had been enlarged to accommodate three ATMs. A metal gate that could be locked after hours provided the ATM users with 24-7 service.
As we approached the counter, the younger of the two women who were eating their lunch stood up, and greeted us with a smile.
“May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Angela Ritter,” Jan said.
The woman turned to the older person, “Angela? These folks are asking for you by name.” Then she turned back to us, “Interested in the museum?”
Jan nodded with a smile towards the elder woman approaching the counter, “And in finding out if I graduated with this lady.”
The woman gave a small start, and I could see her trying to place this tall, stately-looking woman before her. “Graduated?”
“From Stoney High in 1980?”
“That voice. I’m afraid I don’t...”
“I’m Jan, I was Janice Coldwell back then.”
The squint in her eyes was immediately traded for a gleeful surprise. “Janice? What a wonderful surprise!”
She danced out from behind the counter and the two women embraced. “My god, Janice. I would have never... I remember you as, well, so different. But then we’ve all changed in 35 years, haven’t we?”
Jan kept her left hand on Angela’s right shoulder, and introduced me, “Angela, meet my husband, Jim Stanton.”
Angela didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Your husband? I had heard that you owned a newspaper down in Mineral Valley on the Manistee. When did you marry?”
Jan giggled, “About two years ago.”
Angela gave me another head to toe appraisal, then in her no-nonsense way snorted, “He’s big enough for you.”
The two women stood there chatting until Angela stopped short. “You wanted to see the museum.” She spoke to the other woman. “Alice, we’re going next door, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“We didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” Jan said.
“Nonsense. I only eat lunch so I’ll have the energy to work for that museum. I won’t be missed here for a few minutes. Let’s go.”
The museum’s collection occupied three floors of a building that had been designed as a store front with two floors of apartments above. A dedication plaque in the entrance commemorated the building’s construction in 1919 and the Historical Society’s ownership since 1966.
As I wandered the building, the two alums sat in the reading room, and caught up on their lives since high school.
Angela attended Alma College, graduated with a business degree, and went to work for the Bank of Alma. She came back to Stoney from time to time to visit her folks while they were alive, and during one visit met the then-branch manager of the Great Lakes Bank and Trust. They hit it off well, and when he announced his retirement, she asked him for a reference as she applied for his position.
He complied, she won the job, and moved back to Stoney in 1988. She had stayed there since, running the place as it shrunk and shrunk to the point that she and an assistant, Alice, were the bank’s only staff since 2009.
She had never married and had no regrets; her only passion was for the Historical Society Museum. She worked tirelessly for the museum for years, was finally made the president of the board (when no one else wanted the job) in 1995. She had held the position ever since.
Her work has enabled the museum to find itself on Michigan’s Tourism Department’s “Must-see places in the Northern Lower Peninsula.” More than 29,000 tourists visit the museum each year, many of whom subscribe to its quarterly newsletter, and generously support it with financial gifts.
I was lost in the section concerning the timber industry when Jan found me. “Angela needed to be back in her office. She told me how to lock up when we’re through.”
“This place is really neat,” I confided.
“Why are you whispering?”
I looked around. “I don’t know; I just do in museums, libraries, deep woods.”
“I know. What have you seen that I should look at?”
“There’s a pretty nifty Veterans nook on the second floor; and there’s a section on the third floor dedicated to the Class of ’80. Pretty weird, actually.”
I was sitting in the reading room paging through the yearbook from Jan’s class when she finally came back down. “That was spooky,” she said with a shudder. “So many mysteries... What’s that?”
“The Lantern from 1980... they have every yearbook from Stoney as well as all the neighboring schools until they merged into Stoney.”
“Oh, I need to look through that.”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to...”
“I was a sight, wasn’t I?”
“Nobody could complain that you were trying too hard.”
“I didn’t have anything much to work with; I hadn’t matured enough to value my brain the way I shoul
d have.”
I handed her the book, “Maybe Angela would let you borrow it?”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“I’ll go ask, then you can take time with it.”
I left her there and went next door.
“We’re not really a library,” Angela said after I explained about the arson that had destroyed all of Jan’s property. “Tell her that we’ll want it back; it’s actually mine. I donated it...”
I promised her that I’d return it, and she said she’d make a call or two, “Perhaps I can find a replacement for Jan’s.”
I thanked her and headed back to the museum.
“You hungry? Thirsty?” Jan greeted me. “It’s almost five.”
“I could use a refreshment.” I had completely lost track of the time. “Something or someplace in mind?”
“Annie’s. You drive. Turn left at the end of this street. When you hit the river, turn right and you’ll come to Annie’s. She serves a great Bloody Mary, if she’s still in business.”
Annie’s was perched above the river. The one-vehicle-deep gravel parking lot separating the front door from the River Road was full of pickup trucks, but the gravel wrapped around the building to the river bank and looked as if it would hold 40 or more trucks and a couple of semis if necessary.
The building appeared to be of log construction, and from our parking spot the porch for the front door was on our left, and on the river side we could see a covered veranda overlooking the river three steps up from the gravel.
“Let’s go this way,” Jan said as she headed toward the veranda.
I held the screen door open for her, and we both stopped just inside to let our eyes adjust to the light. I could see tables and chairs on either side of the door and the path between them led to some brighter lights and the sound of Sports Center on television.
As my eyes adjusted, I could see that this was a dining room separated from the main barroom by a wall with a fireplace. We could walk to the left of that wall into what could have been a hallway except that there was a beautiful piano there, and what looked to be a six-by-ten-foot dance floor.
