More Cowbell!

Vintage Swiss J Firmann Bulle Cow. (Not ours but similar)

The sun sank into the horizon, across the school’s expansive field. The game was tied, our best batter at the plate, and I led off from second base. “Clang! Clang! Clang!”

“NOOOOO! groaned the players of our ragtag baseball game. It was time for me to go home for supper.

We lived in a suburb of Cincinnati for many years after moving from Italy. It was a quiet neighborhood, littered with kids around my age. Our yard backed up to the school field, and a hole in our fence provided the perfect shortcut to the school and fields where we played baseball, football, and army games of all kinds. It was a midwestern kid’s dream.

The rude interruption to our game came from my mother and her antique cowbell. Before cell phones, there was a common understanding in the neighborhood that all the kids headed home when the streetlights came on. During the summer, that could be well past dinnertime, so my mom had the idea to use this unusual mode of communication. Rumor has it that the bell was purchased in Switzerland, where my sister was born. It is safe to say that it was a merely decorative item at that point, as Kathy was only about 6 months old when the family relocated to Genoa, Italy. I suspect that the bell realized its unique purpose once we were in Cincinnati. By then, we were all big enough to be moving freely through the neighborhood.

One theory that has been floated, is that our mother brought it to our cottage at Torch Lake, up in northern Michigan, as a way to call us in from swimming in the water. I am inclined to agree with this one. The lake is beautiful and our west shore is filled with friends and relations. It is still common for us, now all grown, to commune out in the water to float, laugh, swim, and repeat for hours on hot days. Back in the days of our youth, we chased minnows, ran screaming from suspected leeches, and scoured the shore for Petoskey stones.

Back in our Kenwood neighborhood in Ohio, the cowbell was the bane of summer. It interrupted more than one baseball game, and all the neighbors knew that it was calling for me. It wasn’t uncommon for a kid from way up the street to stop their bike by the field to let me know that they had heard my bell, and I had better get home quick!

That bell had a magical power to compel compliance, even from those that were an unintended audience. It rang out and the other kids alerted me. It rang out and I headed home. It didn’t matter where we were, Genoa, Rome, Cincinnati, or Torch Lake. The bell rang and we reacted.

Despite the intrusion and inconvenience of that bell’s persistent clang, I have to say that I miss it. My dad passed in 2016, and Mom is 92. My sisters and I all live in different cities, so the bell sits quietly at my sister, Kathy’s, house. My mom bought me a small handheld school bell when she gifted the original to Kathy. I keep it by our landline phone, which also sits quiet and abandoned near my kitchen.

This week I lost my Aunt Liz. She was my dad’s sister and had known my mom for even longer than Mom had known Dad. She too loved Torch Lake, and spent a great many years living at the cottage. Although she never used the cowbell to call her own kids in, she giggled when Mom did it. Somehow it isn’t a stretch for me to imagine that over the crisp, clear water of our lake, perhaps Liz heard a “Clang! Clang! Clang!” calling her home. She heard the call, and she went.

.

Then and Now

Summers at Torch Lake are always magical, but nothing compares to the summers of my youth. As the sun peeked over the eastern shore we would delight at the diamonds that appeared to sparkle on the surface of the water. I believed those diamonds were delivered just for me. I’m sure my cousins thought the same for themselves, but I was steadfast in the knowledge that they had come to welcome me to a new day. They reached across the water beckoning me out for a swim. “Come join us,” they whispered as they twinkled merrily, and out to swim I would go.

The water, always cold and clear due to being spring-fed and glacier-cut, lapped playfully at my ankles, knees, and thighs as I walked along the sandy bottom toward the raft. The raft was anchored about 100 yards offshore, at the edge of the green. Torch Lake has three distinct colors. It is a beige, sandy color by the shore, which becomes a pale green shade as the water gets deeper and deeper. The green shade of the water hits at about your elbows and continues until you can no longer touch the lake floor. The last shade is a deep, dark blue. It marks the drop off which is where the glacier cut a deep gash into the lake floor. There was a time when no one really knew how deep the lake was.

The lake today is still tricolored and beautiful. It has become warmer over the years and has more moss than it has had in the past, but it is still mostly crystal clear and chilly. The diamonds still reflect on the water and beckon me out to swim. The swimming raft of my childhood has been replaced and rebuilt a number of times, but still anchors in the green. The walk out to the raft is sandy and smooth but is now peppered with zebra muscles that can slice a toe if you aren’t careful. There is a generations-old battle between the seagulls and our family over the raft. We have taken to building “scarecrows” of sorts to keep them at bay, but they rarely work. Pie tins, sparkly outfits from the thrift store, and empty beer cans for arms sway in the breeze, trying to scare away the gulls, yet there are reminders of their presence that need to be scraped off daily.

Some things never change.

Advice from Mom

My mom never really gave “advice” and even if she had, I doubt I would’ve taken it.  We just didn’t have that kind of relationship.  I was in my angry teen years, and Rita was going through perimenopause.  Not a good combination.  There were lots of tears and screaming during the period of time when advice might have been offered.  

As I got closer to leaving home for college, things started to calm down.  Dad wasn’t traveling as much for work, I had mostly adjusted to life in California, and Mom was in a happier headspace.  It was a welcome reprieve from the constant friction in the house.  During this time, Rita and I were much more likely to chat a bit.  It was during one of these chats when I received what was the closest thing to advice that I had ever gotten from her.  

I was at the kitchen table reading Cosmo magazine while Mom prepared dinner. I came across the “Cosmo Quiz” and was struck by the idea that it would be fun to have Mom take it. “Hey, Mom. You wanna take the Cosmo Quiz?”

“Sure. What’s it about?”

“The title says, ‘Is he Mr. Right?'” I replied.

I gave her the quiz and it was clear that Dad was Mr. Right for her. I had a boyfriend at the time, and he was always talking about getting married someday. I loved him, but I just wasn’t sure about marriage. That felt like a long way off for me. I, too, had taken the quiz, and the results weren’t as obvious as my mom’s.

“Mom, how did you know that Dad was the right guy for you? I mean, you dated other guys, right? So, how did you KNOW that Dad was the one?”

“It’s hard to describe, but when you know, you just know.”

Damn did that piss me off. It felt like such a cop-out. I wanted facts. I wanted data. I wanted something tangible and quantifiable, and I got, “When you know, you just know.” UGH!

I took that advice with me to college, where I tried several times to “just know” that this guy, or that one, was the right one. I turned myself inside out trying to make each boy I dated into the right one. It was so frustrating, and through it all, I remember my mom saying, “When you know, you know.” It made me want to scream!

After college, I moved home for a while as I waited to hear from grad schools. Meanwhile, I got a job at Western Therapy selling physical therapy equipment. It was a fun job and the people were really nice. On my first day, my manager, Kevin, took me out with him on sales calls. It was interesting and exciting and I thought that I might really like this industry. It was adjacent to the field that I wanted to pursue, and it had the potential to make me some money. It was a win-win. On the way back to the shop at the end of the day, Kevin stopped at a liquor store. Apparently, co-workers stayed after work on Fridays to play hoops in the warehouse and hang out, so he was getting some beer. He parked and said, “What kind of beer would you like?”

“Oh whatever you like is fine,” I replied.

“No, seriously, if you were here by yourself what would you buy?”

“I guess I would buy Coors Light.”

Kevin’s face lit up, “That’s great! I think I love you. Will you marry me?”

I laughed as he turned and made his way into the store. He came back with a six-pack of Coors Light. We stayed after work and shot baskets in the warehouse with some of the folks that day and many days after.

I really enjoyed Kevin. He was smart and very funny, but he was about five years older than me, so I just considered him to be “cute for an old guy.” I had just gotten out of a disastrous relationship and I wasn’t looking for anything. Every day at dinner with Mom and Dad, I would share about my job and Kevin was a frequent mention in the tales. I was considering introducing him to one of my best friends, Margaret. She was an amazing girl, who just hadn’t had much luck with guys. I thought that they would get along.

One night at dinner, I mentioned my intention to introduce them. Rita slapped her hands on the table startling both Dad and me. “If this guy is so great, why are you pawning him off on Margaret? Why don’t you keep him for yourself?” I was stunned at her response, but I took the comment to heart. I had never really thought about it until that very moment.

The next day at work, I asked Kevin to go to the movies with me. He quickly agreed. That date is a whole story in itself, but suffice it to say, “When you know, you just know.” Damn, I hate it when Mom is right.

S and K4

S and K4 is how we signed our Christmas cards and general correspondence once all of the kids were born. I suppose it evolved from Sue and Kevin to S and K, to S and K2, S and K3, and finally S and K4. Kevin and I rarely planned the major things that happened in our lives. We got engaged on a whim, without a ring or a plan of what would happen next. We bought a house with the help of Rita and Bob, and then we got pregnant. That is a story in and of itself, but suffice it to say that we hadn’t planned it.

By the same token, we proceeded through the pregnancy as if nothing much would be changing after the baby was born. We were so naive. We had talked about names and I had looked at some name books, but it didn’t really feel like a rush or anything. Relatively early on in the pregnancy, maybe 10-12 weeks, I had a dream. I dream a lot and am fairly intuitive, so I pay attention to my dreams. Kevin knows and has always respected this. This is one of the many reasons that I love him.

One night, I had a dream. It was very vivid. In the dream, Kevin and I were with our children. We had had three. They were not identifiable by gender, but they appeared to be of different ages. The clearest part of the dream was their names. One was Katie, another was Kelly, and the last one was KJ. Other than Katie, it was unclear what gender they were, but they were healthy and we were happy.

I woke and shook Kevin awake. “Kevin, wake up. I just had the weirdest dream.” He shook off his slumber and looked at me.

“What? Are you OK?” he asked hoarsely.

“I’m fine. I just want you to know that we are going to have three kids and their names are going to be Katie, Kelly, and KJ. That’s all I know. I don’t even know what KJ stands for. Is that OK with you?”

“Sure,” he responded. “Sounds good to me.” He hugged me and rolled back over and went to sleep.

After that, we waited… and waited…and waited for the baby to come. When I finally gave that last push in the hospital, I was panting with exhaustion when I heard Kevin exclaim, “We have a Katie!”

We’re Number Three

“We’re number three!  We’re number three!  We’re number three!” We chanted as we ran down to the water, our suntanned legs zipping through the beach grasses.  It was summer in Michigan, we were about nine, and we had just learned that National Geographic had recently published an article claiming that Torch Lake, OUR Torch Lake, was the third most beautiful lake in the world. In. The. World.  Over the years, we have held to this assertion.  We have license plate holders and stickers to prove it.  This moment and so many others like it are etched on my heart, and those of my family, cousins, and lake friends. 

The lake holds these collective memories still today, and it will continue to gather each tale, hold and keep it until someone digs it up from around the fire pit to be scrutinized and shared by the circle.  They are the nuggets of lore that have been contributed to over time by those who have come and gone over the many years.  Each contribution painted in the perspective of the contributor.  Each colored in the circumstance, familial filter, and lens of those who shared their musings around the fire pit. It is this collective memory that muddies the water between truth and myth.   

It is the clarity and purity of the waters of Torch Lake that keep us mostly honest in our recollections.  She alone holds the truth.  She has borne witness to generations of love, loss, and laughter.  Her crystal clear, tricolored waters will always be number one to us.

Happy Hour

“Dinner in a half an hour!” I shout across the deck to my cousin’s deck next door.

“Sue, happy hour begins at 6, not dinner,” Nancy hollers back.  “Dinner is at 7.”

How easy it is to forget the tide table that we follow at the lake. After 11 months away in the real world, I have forgotten to take it easy, slow it down, relax and refresh.  “OK, I’ll shut it down.  Be over in a minute,”  I respond.  Nancy lives in northern Michigan, and has access to her cottage year-round.  She adapts more quickly to the slower pace than I do.

For generations, family, cousins, second cousins-once-removed, and friends have gathered at one deck or another along our “compound” of four houses on Torch Lake, Michigan.  We jockey for the lake-facing chairs, so that we can enjoy lake views of the tricolored waters while we nosh on whitefish pâté, and other lake specialties while we sip boxed wine with ice.  Truth be told, the non-lake-facing spots are just as lovely, because you catch the reflection of the lake on the big windows of the cottages, and can take in the woods of white pine, ash, and birch surrounding them.

Nancy has a fantastic garden, so we look forward to her daily fresh veggie contribution to the event.  Her snap peas are delicate and sweet, adding a crunch and tasty compliment to any humus offering.  Bob, her husband, is a cherry farmer, so when he comes and brings some to share, it is a very special treat.  Everyone contributes to the food, but it is the conversation that drives this tradition.

Our second cousins-once-removed, the Mertz family,  have lived here year-round for longer than any of us.  They are our touchstones for local news and color commentary.  We share stories about the old days, when we were all young, and turn to them for verification.  The problem with this is that all the Mertzs are incredibly creative people, so there is an ongoing argument as to what is factual, and what is a “Mertz Myth.”  Truth is, none of us really care, as the stories are vibrant, engaging, and perfect for this setting.

Did Grampa Mertz actually shoot a water moccasin with a revolver from the shore, while all of the kids were in the water?  We may never know.  Mertz, a retired Detroit Police Officer, is long gone, but the story persists leaving its mark on happy hour year after year.

The Enrollment Interview

Mom and I entered the room, a concrete bunker with boxes on the tables, supplies scattered around, and one cleared off round table with chairs that were perfect for people my size.  “Hello!  Thank you for coming.  Sorry about the mess,”  teacher said crossing the room to greet us.  She was a solid woman with golden hair that was gradually fading into a whitish grey around her temples and her face.  She held out her hand to my mother.  My eyes swept the room and saw chalkboards and cubbies, but no children.  It was prior to the beginning of school, and she was probably busy setting up her class.  I don’t recall any brightly colored bulletin boards or book bins that are a staple of early education.  I had attended preschool, but not in America.

We moved to Cincinnati from Rome in the fall of 1967.  I would turn five toward the end of November.  I don’t recall the details of most of the transition from Rome to the U.S., but I do have a few vivid memories.  This meeting is one.  It’s interesting that this memory reflects only a few of the physical details, but focuses more on the feeling or the tone of the moment. My mother had meet with the Principal of Concord Elementary School to set up an enrollment interview because, despite having moved into the attendance area, my birthday was close to the age cut off.  At that time, she was told that I would need to meet with the Kindergarten teacher to see if I was mature enough to attend that school year.  During the meeting, Mom told the principal that we had been living abroad, and if the interview involved any questions about American television or pop culture, I wouldn’t be able to answer them.  Those words still haunt her, as she feels that they influenced the school’s decision.

The day of the interview, we had walked through a hole in our backyard fence and across the baseball fields and playground to our meeting.  The fields were manicured and the sun shone brightly, but there was tension in my mother’s hand as it clutched mine.  I had no idea what was about to happen, but I was getting more and more nervous as we approached the school.  

Normally I would have relished a walk with my mom, as they were few and far between. Walks were done with my nanny, Lia.   Lia was hired by my mother when I was three months old.  Although she did many things for us, I believed that she was there just for me.  She was with us until we moved to the states.  She spoke only Italian, and she would proudly tell people that I spoke like a native.  I spoke English too, of course, but with Lia it was all Italian.  She was my world. But Lia was an ocean away.  This was just my mom and I traipsing across the field toward something important.  Something scary.

I don’t recall what I wore, although I assume I was in a dress, and I don’t recall the interview questions, but I do remember feeling unsure and anxious.  As a bilingual child, raised in a household that required fluency in English and Italian, I transitioned seamlessly from one to the other.  I would speak to my neighbors and friends in Italian, and to my family in English.  Sometimes one of them would speak to me in English, and I would answer in Italian. Sadly, that is what happened during our meeting.  The teacher went through her list of questions, which I answered thoughtfully and correctly, according to my mother, but in Italian.  I felt a tinge of pride for having answered the questions, but my pride was misplaced.  I could feel my mother’s frustration rising, as the questions continued in rapid succession.  With each question, I confidently responded.  With each question, my mother became more agitated. Finally, she clenched her teeth and demanded in Italian, “Rispondi alle domande in Inglese, non Italiano!” 

I don’t remember exactly how the teacher let us know that I had failed the interview, so the quote below is a compilation of conversations that I have had with Mom, but I recall my mother’s protest that my answers had been correct, and that I had just been nervous.  But her protestations were unsuccessful, and what the teacher recommended next would have lasting implications on my nearly five year old life.  “It is my professional opinion that in order for your child to participate in American school, she needs to speak English.   To accomplish that goal for the following year, I suggest that you no longer speak Italian at home.  Allowing her to speak Italian at home is confusing for her, and it will hold her back academically.  If she returns next year and speaks only English, she will be admitted to kindergarten,” she said, as she ushered us toward the door.

My mother gripped my hand tightly and we marched deliberately out the door and across the field toward my new home.  Shame filled me like water, starting from the tips of my toes and rising, like the tide, to the top of my head.  Mom was clearly mad, and it was my fault. I had let everyone down.  I had failed at school, prior to even starting.  

Preface

My family is a bunch of liars.  I blame my grandfather.  He was fond of saying that we should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.  Many of us took this advice to heart, so not only are our memories painted through our individual perspectives, they are also embellished with our personal creativity.  Trying to ferret out the truth behind my life stories has been further impeded by the passing of my father and my mother’s failing memory.  At nearly 88 years old, she has earned the right to forget a few things. 

Debating family folklore has been a happy hour tradition on the decks of our Torch Lake cottages for generations.  The story I share here is my best recollection of how the events of my life unfolded, so for the cousins and other family members who care to challenge the verity of this tale, I encourage you to write your own rebuttal, and present it on the deck at happy hour for our consideration.

Coming Home

The road was so dark, that she nearly missed the driveway.  There was no moon and the sky was lightly overcast, giving the woods an eerie shimmer. She drove slowly down the dirt driveway, lowering the windows to listen to the woods.  As the tires crunched a rhythm into the sand and pine needles, Sarah listened to the world outside.  Night creatures rustled the leaves of the trees lining the way.  In the next drive, an owl called out a greeting.  The scent of pine and moist leaves filled her nose and her memory.  This driveway had always led to safety, to love, companionship, to family.  There was always a sense of excitement and adventure when Sarah approached the cottage, but tonight it was different.

She pulled carefully into the sandy drive in front of the back door.  The cottage, dark and too quiet, held back its welcome.  Closing the door lightly behind her, Sarah walked around the side of the house toward the front porch, toward the lake.  The lake finally greeted her, its waves licking the shore in short, repetitive ticks.  She crossed the front yard to the steps of the dock and followed them down to the shore.  She was part of the darkness now, part of the sand and pine and water.

Sarah sat down on the steps and hugged her knees.  Her blonde hair, hastily pulled into a messy ponytail, had no moonlight to reflect it’s golden hues.  She shivered slightly in her light sweater and shorts as she looked out onto the dark of the lake. Eventually, she would have to unpack the car. Eventually, she would have to go into the house and get things started. Eventually…she thought, as she sat in quiet contemplation on a wooden step, on a dark, Northern Michigan night, staring out over the water that had born witness to her entire life. What came before and what would come after were buried in the depths of the cold, clear water.

The cool, off shore breeze carried with it the faces and voices of long ago. Sarah sat for a moment and let those memories fill the quiet around her.

 

 

 

 

 

Claire

The dark water slapped at the shore.  Claire tried to find comfort in the rhythm, but still she felt discordant and unsettled.  The moonless night, suffocating and oppressive, added to her anxiety.   She knew that she could no longer find comfort at the lake.  No longer would the water wash away her worries and her sins.  This dock, where she had happily sunned herself like a sea lion for most of her life, now felt dirty and humiliating.  How had she let it come to this?  She was glad for the darkness, as it hid her tears and her shame.