MICHIGAN BESTSELLER LIST FOR MAY

Screenshot 2016-06-20 20.13.09MAY 2016 MICHIGAN BESTSELLER LIST TOP TWENTY

1) Darcy Woods–Summer of Supernovas (The Crown Publishing Group)

2) Rachel DeWoskin–Blind (Viking Children’s Books/Penguin Books USA)

3) Steve Hamilton–The Second Life of Nick Mason (G.P. Putnam’s Sons/Penguin Books USA)

4) Viola Shipman–The Charm Bracelet: A Novel (Macmillan/Thomas Dunne Books) [last month #14]

5) Victor J. Strecher–Life on Purpose: How Living for What Matters Most Changes Everything (HarperOne/HarperCollins Publishers)

6) Shaka Senghor–Writing My Wrongs: Life, Death, and Redemption in an American Prison (Convergent Books/Penguin Random House Company)

7) Angela Flournoy–The Turner House: A Novel (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) [last month #1]

8) Stan Tekiela–Birds of Michigan Field Guide (Adventure Publications) [last month #4]

9) Doreen Cronin–Bloom (Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books/Simon and Schuster)

10) Nathan Bomey–Detroit Resurrected: To Bankruptcy and Back (W.W. Norton & Company)

11) Desiree Cooper–Know the Mother: stories (Wayne State University Press)

12) Bonnie Jo Campbell–Mothers, Tell Your Daughters: Stories (W.W. Norton & Company) [last month #7]

13) M.L. Liebler–I Want to Be Once: Poems (Wayne State University Press)

14) Nevada Barr–Boar Island: An Anna Pigeon Novel (Macmillan/Minotaur Books)

15) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery  (Lyons Press) [last month #3]

16) DeLorme Mapping Company–Michigan Atlas & Gazetteer (DeLorme Mapping Company)

17) Steve Hamilton–A Cold Day in Paradise (Macmillan/St. Martin’s Press)

18) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #2]

19) Ed Shenkman–I Went to the Party in Kalamazoo (Commonwealth Editions)

20) Paula McLain–Circling the Sun: A Novel (Random House)

 

MAY 2016 UPPER PENINSULA BESTSELLER LIST TOP TEN

1) Steve Hamilton–The Second Life of Nick Mason (G.P. Putnam’s Sons/Penguin Books USA)

2) Nevada Barr–Boar Island: An Anna Pigeon Novel (Macmillan/Minotaur Books)

3) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery (Lyons Press) [last month #2]

4) DeLorme Mapping Company–Michigan Atlas & Gazetteer (DeLorme Mapping Company)

5) Steve Hamilton–A Cold Day in Paradise (Macmillan/St. Martin’s Press)

6) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #1]

7) John Smolens–Wolf’s Mouth: A Novel (Michigan State University Press)

8) Duffy Brown–Braking for Bodies: a cycle path mystery (Berkeley Publishing Group/Penguin Books USA) [last month #10] [tied]

8) Emily St. John Mandel–Station Eleven: A Novel (The Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group) [tied]

10) Jerry Dennis–The Living Great Lakes: Searching for the Heart of the Island Seas (St. Martin’s Press)

The May Michigan Bestseller List is for books about Michigan topics, written by Michigan authors, or published by Michigan publishers, compiled by Ron Riekki, from fifteen Michigan bookstores: Battle Creek Books in Battle Creek, www.battlecreekbooks.com/; Between the Covers in Harbor Springs, facebook.com/btcbookstore; Blue Frog Books in Howell, bluefrogbooksandmore.com; Book Beat in Oak Park,
www.thebookbeat.com/shop/contact_us.php; Bookbug in Kalamazoo, bookbugkalamazoo.com; Dog Ears Books in Northport, www.dogearsbooks.net/; Great Lakes Books & Supply in Big Rapids, greatlakesbook.com; McLean and Eakin Bookstore in Petoskey, mcleanandeakin.com; Michigan News Agency in Kalamazoo,www.michigannews.biz/; Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor, nicolasbooks.com; Pages Bookshop in Detroit, www.pagesbkshop.com/; Schuler Books & Music in Grand Rapids, Lansing and Okemos, schulerbooks.com; and Snowbound Books in Marquette, www.snowboundbooks.com.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin: Champagne in the Sour Times

Courtesy of Thomas Hawk/Flickr Creative Commons

Courtesy of Thomas Hawk/Flickr Creative Commons

BY TORI SZEKERES 

This essay is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project.

I didn’t notice how drunk my coworker Erin was until she fell down for the second time on our way to Summerfest.

Erin and I weren’t friends outside of work. We weren’t friends at work, either. The marketing firm we worked for took its company’s employees to Summerfest on the opening night of the music festival.  We were together in a group walking over from a bar on Water Street. I was one of the old ladies of the company at 27. Many of my coworkers were just out of college, or, like Erin, just 21.

For those of you not familiar with Summerfest, it’s an opportunity for all the bands you love to play on Milwaukee’s lakefront in late June and early July.  What the promotional materials don’t tell you is that it’s a ten-day chance for a million people to party till they puke a river of Miller Genuine Draft under a bridge.

I knew of Erin because she was dating Ryan, who sat in the next cube. He didn’t really talk about her all that much when she wasn’t around.  Nor did he talk to her that much when she stopped by his desk.

He was not walking over with us. I didn’t tell Erin this, but while she was working on the second floor, Ryan would flirt with our boss, Jessica, who seemed interested in learning more about what he had to offer.

We pulled Erin up. We asked if she was okay. We progressed into the south gates of the Summerfest grounds. And then I realized what was happening: Erin was so not okay. She couldn’t walk without falling and it was up to me to ensure she returned home unharmed.  It was okay with me: I knew what could happen if you turned a blind eye toward another woman in need.  And the lineup that night sucked, anyway.

The other women went off into the night, not to be seen again until work the next day.  The 5 foot 8 inch me linked my arms under the arms of 5 foot 2 inch, 98-pound Erin. “I’M GOING TO TAKE YOU HOME!” I told her over the din. “I’M HOLDING ON TO YOU SO YOU DON’T FALL!”

“OK!” she said. “WHERE’S RYAN?”

“DON’T WORRY ABOUT HIM!” I shouted.

And we began our trek toward the North Gate, which would have the ATMs and taxis needed to get us back to my house on the east side, which had my car parked nearby.

Hours seemed to pass.  We were walking against a crowd of 200,000 people who were headed south on the grounds, toward The Fray playing at the Marcus Amphitheatre and the stages with the 10 p.m. shows. Neither of us said much to each other as we stopped at the women’s bathrooms.

But as we got to the midway point of the festival, security guards and other interested parties began to take notice of Erin’s current mode of transport. In response, I got her birthdate and started shouting out “TWELVE THIRTEEN EIGHTY FOUR! I’M TAKING HER HOME!” at anyone who raised an eyebrow.  They needed to know she drank legally tonight.

While we walked, I thought about the boys in my life that I treated like kings while they treated me like an assistant.

The last time I had been as drunk as Erin was August 2003. I called out my then-boyfriend for having an online friendship with a camgirl from his hometown. His lack of concern sent me toward the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels on top of the refrigerator. I intended to add the remaining pills of my Effexor prescription to the whiskey burbling in my stomach, but my parents got home first. I’m not the only one who has ever been treated like she didn’t matter, I thought, looking at the back of Erin’s head.

Erin and I finally got to the north entrance. I noticed there was a First Aid tent, so I thought it would be a good idea to get her checked out before we split. She was trying to convince me to let her call her friend Juan to give us rides back to our residences as I brought her into the tent. I emphasized I would be taking her home.

A medic took Erin behind a curtain and I looked around. There were three crying blonde women in various states of intoxication sitting against the wall. It was like I had entered into an adult daycare before naptime.

I took a breath and made eye contact with the crying girl in the middle of the group. Maybe this was a projection out of Psych 101, but I had an idea from where her tears stemmed. I said, “He’s not worth it.” She stopped crying. She didn’t give me a strange look, so I continued. “He’s not worth it,” I said again.

I also was amazed that there were so many dudes out there treating so many ladies like shit! I thought I was the only one, due to my weight and general awkwardness! I was concerned for Erin, yes, but this realization blew my mind.

“She’s right,” a man’s voice said behind me. “We’re not.” He brought Erin back out and released her to me.  She would be fine once she sobered up.

Tori Szekeres now lives 25 miles away from Lake Michigan in Chicago’s Northwest Suburbs. She enjoys stand-up comedy, graphic design and writing. She emphasizes that the names here are changed to protect the innocent. 

Peterborough, Ontario: Unsettled in Nogojiwanong

BY JANE AFFLECK

This essay is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project.

Otonobee_3After twenty-four hours by train and two by bus, I arrived in Peterborough, Ontario with two suitcases and a backpack weighted with books, laptop, and clothes. I’d have little more to get me through year one of my PhD. September through May, “home” was a furnished house shared with three other students; I’d rented out my house in Halifax, Nova Scotia and put my belongings in storage. Low commitment, I told myself, in case the PhD didn’t work out.

The landlady’s windowsill knick-knacks were relocated to the dining room so I’d have a better view of the backyard and, just beyond, the creek—one of many crossing Peterborough and feeding the Otonobee River, part of the Trent-Severn Waterway, a suture of switchbacking rivers, lakes and and locks running from Georgian Bay into Lake Ontario. Mornings after heavy rain, waiting for my toast, I’d watch the swollen creek tumble; through the winter, I’d guess how cold it was by how thick the ice looked. In spring, sun-warmed snow broke from the banks and dissolved into the current, flowing south-eastward.

End of May, I did too, returning to Halifax to teach an art history course. Reconnecting with friends and family, I rarely thought of Peterborough—not till late August, when Graduate Studies sent emails reminding me to register, which I did the day after I returned, within hours of the deadline.

My ambivalence was puzzling. For second year, I had a one-bedroom apartment with a front garden, and soon, movers would deliver my things from storage: bed and dresser, sofa, oak table and desk, a couple hundred books, and mementos and photographs of my travels across Canada, the UK and Asia. But unpacking boxes, leafing through books, I felt only brief moments of joy; I couldn’t shake an unsettled, even sad, feeling. I joked with friends that it was “buyer’s regret,” having committed to living in Peterborough and doing the PhD. Once I had a routine, I figured, I’d get over it.

But as the days passed, my ambivalence intensified; I missed Halifax more than during first year. So I tried to be social, hoping to feel connected, that the scales would tip in favour of being here. In this spirit, I went on the Anti-Colonization Walk-About during “DisOrientation Week” in late September.

A small group was already assembled at Confederation Square, the appointed meeting place. Our guide was a member of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, which had shared this land with the Mississauga before European contact—a fact sometimes overlooked, she noted, by the Mississauga and the government. Both the Haudenosaunee and the Mississauga are Anishinaabe people, whose traditional territories extend in all directions from the Great Lakes. Yet the territorial acknowledgement I’d learned the week before referred only to the Mississauga. I felt a trickle of doubt—not for our guide, but because I’d blindly accepted one version of the story.

Before the walk, our guide led us in ceremony: she placed a lit bundle of sage in a clamshell, wafted the smoke over herself, then passed it around so we could do the same.

We followed her to the edge of the park and a sign describing how “pioneers” had used it as an agricultural fair, then as a cemetery. At the bottom, two sentences acknowledged that remains of “First Nations” people had also been found. We followed her to a grass median in a parking lot and a small boulder with a plaque: “An Anishinaabe lies here. Rest in peace.” Nearby, a larger plaque detailed the life of the settler who’d found the remains. There was no further information about the Anishinaabe.

Indigenous bodies beneath settlers’ bodies; settlers’ words burying Indigenous history.

We followed her downtown. The quaint brick buildings of the main streets now seemed to conceal something, to be on shaky ground that might split open and swallow us up. I felt heavy, as though that boulder was now lodged between my heart and stomach. It was unlike any emotional weight I’d ever experienced—not the garden-variety blues that sometimes settle after several of life’s more trying days, not despair, not even grief. It was embodied—an emotion I was physically carrying.

We stopped along the west bank of the Otonobee. She asked us what we could hear.

A distant bird.

The wind in the leaves of the trees overhead.

Afternoon traffic crossing the bridges.

The constant drone of the ventilation system in the factory to the north.

But not the river.

A hierarchy of sounds; a hierarchy of cultures.

We followed her to a patch of grass for closing ceremony: fingers dipped into a cup of warm water, then touched to forehead, nose, neck, shoulders, knees, and ankles. Our guide’s brother used a feather to “sweep death” from our eyes and ears. It was an oddly intimate gesture, and I wasn’t sure I believed it would work. But opening my eyes, seeing his smile, the lightness of joy replaced the gravity, the lassitude, of that boulder.

Back at my apartment, porch festooned with the vines of ripening beans, a hint of the boulder’s lug returned. Unlocking the door, I was grateful for a quiet place to process the afternoon’s experiences, but more aware than ever that this was not my home, just a temporary place to be.

Three blocks eastward, the Otonobee River flowed on, as it had long before 1615, when Samuel de Champlain conscripted the Anishinaabe, whose knowledge he used to define and delimit the land and the waterways between Georgian Bay and Lake Ontario, and beyond.

Three blocks eastward, the Otonobee River flowed on, as it will long after I’ve completed the PhD and found another, probably temporary, place to be.

In the meantime, reconciliation: of my feelings of ambivalence about staying for two more years in Nogojiwanong—the Anishinaabe word for Peterborough, meaning “place at the end of rapids”—and through becoming an anti-colonizing settler ally, wherever I am.

Jane Affleck is a writer, part-time instructor at NSCAD University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and PhD candidate in the Cultural Studies program at Trent University, in Peterborough, Ontario. Her writing (short stories, feature articles and exhibition reviews) has appeared in several Canadian arts and culture magazines, including C Magazine, a quarterly publication devoted to international contemporary art. Her Peterborough “bucket list” (to do before completing the PhD and leaving town) includes visiting the Canadian Canoe Museum and, after a couple of lessons, venturing along the Otonobee River in a canoe.

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Michigan bestseller list for April 2016

Screen Shot 2016-05-09 at 1.44.20 PMMICHIGAN BESTSELLER LIST TOP 15 FOR APRIL 2016

1) Angela Flournoy–The Turner House: A Novel (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt)

2) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #2]

3) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery (Lyons Press) [last month #7]

4) Stan Tekiela–Birds of Michigan: Field Guide (Adventure Publications)

5) Ernest Hemingway–The Sun Also Rises (Charles Scribner’s Sons)

6) Kathy-Jo Wargin–The Legend of Leelanau (Sleeping Bear Press) [tied]

6) Kathy-Jo Wargin–S is for Sleeping Bear Dunes: A National Lakeshore Alphabet (Sleeping Bear Press) [tied]

8) Juan Cole–The New Arabs: How the Millennial Generation is Changing the Middle East (Simon & Schuster) [tied]

8) Grace Tiffany–Gunpowder Percy: A Novel (Bagwyn Books) [tied]

10) Jack Clifford–The Least Likely to Succeed (Lone Wolf Press)

11) Bonnie Jo Campbell–Mothers–Tell Your Daughters: Stories (W.W. Norton & Company)

12) Diane Seuss–Four-Legged Girl: poems (Graywolf Press)

13) Jim Harrison–The Big Seven (Grove Press) [last month #10]

14) Viola Shipman–The Charm Bracelet: A Novel (Thomas Dunne Books) [last month #1)

15) Rae Blackledge–25 stylish knitted slippers: fun designs for clogs, moccasins, boots, animal slippers, loafers, & more (Stackpole Books)

 

UPPER PENINSULA BESTSELLER LIST TOP 15 FOR APRIL 2016

1) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #1]

2) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery (Lyons Press) [last month #2]

3) Ernest Hemingway–The Sun Also Rises (Charles Scribner’s Sons)

4) Jim Harrison–The Big Seven (Grove Press) [last month #3]

5) Jerry Dennis–The Living Great Lakes: Searching for the Heart of the Inland Seas (St. Martin’s Press/Macmillan)

6) Bonnie Jo Campbell—Mothers, Tell Your Daughters: Stories (W.W. Norton & Company)

7) Mary Emerick–The Geography of Water (University of Alaska Press)

8) Aimee Bissonette–North Woods Girl (Minnesota Historical Society Press)

9) Ellen Airgood–The Education of Ivy Blake (Nancy Paulsen Books/Penguin Books USA)

10) Duffy Brown–Braking for Bodies: a cycle path mystery (Berkeley Publishing Group/Penguin Books USA) [tied]

10) Loren R. Graham–A Face in the Rock: The Tale of a Grand Island Chippewa (University of California Press) [tied]

12) William Durbin–Song of Sampo Lake (University of Minnesota Press) [tied]

12) Jim Harrison–True North (Grove Press) [tied]

14) Jim Harrison–Dead Man’s Float (Copper Canyon Press) [last month #8] [tied]

14) Jim Harrison–Returning to Earth: A Novel (Grove Press) [tied]

14) Howard Webkamigad–Ottawa Stories from the Springs: anishinaabe dibaadjimowinan wodi gaa binjibaamigak wodi mookodjiwong e zhinikaadek (Michigan State University Press) [tied]

The Michigan Bestseller List for April includes fifteen Michigan stores: Between the Covers in Harbor Springs, facebook.com/btcbookstore; Blue Frog Books in Howell, bluefrogbooksandmore.com; Bookbug in Kalamazoo, bookbugkalamazoo.com; Falling Rock Cafe and Bookstore in Munising, www.fallingrockcafe.com; Great Lakes Books & Supply in Big Rapids, greatlakesbook.com; Kazoo Books in north Kalamazoo and south Kalamazoo, kazoobooks.com/; McLean and Eakin Bookstore in Petoskey, mcleanandeakin.com; Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor, nicolasbooks.com; North Wind Books in Hancock, bookstore.finlandia.edu; Saturn Booksellers in Gaylord, www.saturnbooksellers.com, Schuler Books & Music in Grand Rapids, Lansing and Okemos, schulerbooks.com, Snowbound Books in Marquette, www.snowboundbooks.com.  (Bookstores wanting to add onto participation for the Michigan Bestseller List and Upper Peninsula Bestseller List can contact twitter @RonRiekki.)

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Michigan bestseller list for March 2016

MARCH MICHIGAN BESTSELLER LIST TOP 15

Screen Shot 2016-04-12 at 5.11.28 PM1) Viola Shipman–The Charm Bracelet: A Novel (Thomas Dunne Books)

2) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #1]

3) Andy Mozina–Contrary Motion: A Novel (Spiegel & Grau/Random House Books)

4) Doreen Cronin–Bloom (Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books/Simon & Schuster)

5) Tom Rath–Strengths Based Leadership: Leaders, Teams, and Why People Follow (Gallup Press)

6) Denise Brennan-Nelson–Leopold the Lion (Sleeping Bear Press) [last month #3]

7) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery (Lyons Press) [last month #7]

8) Jody Valley–Twisted Minds (Bella Books)

9) Todd E. Robinson–A City Within a City: The Black Freedom Struggle in Grand Rapids, Michigan (Temple University Press)

10) Jim Harrison–The Big Seven (Grove Press)

11) Brad Meltzer–Heroes for My Daughter (HarperCollins Publishers)

12) John Smolens–Wolf’s Mouth (Michigan State University Press) [last month #2]

13) Brad Meltzer–Heroes for My Son (HarperCollins Publishers) [tie]

13) Kristen Remenar–Groundhog’s Dilemma (Charlesbridge Publishing) [tie]

13) Steve L. Robbins–What If: Short Stories to Spark Diversity Dialogue (Nicholas Brealey America) [tie]

 

MARCH UPPER PENINSULA BESTSELLER LIST TOP 15

1) Jim Harrison–The Ancient Minstrel (Grove Press) [last month #1]

2) Joseph Heywood–Buckular Dystrophy: A Woods Cop Mystery (Lyons Press) [last month #3]

3) Jim Harrison–The Big Seven (Grove Press) [last month #5]

4) John Smolens–Wolf’s Mouth (Michigan State University Press) [last month #2]

5) Alison DeCamp–My Near-Death Adventures (99% True) (Crown Books for Young Readers)

6) John Fortunato–Dark Reservations: A Mystery (Minotaur Books)

7) Emily St. John Mandel–Station Eleven: A Novel (Knopf Doubleday) [last month #6]

8) Jim Harrison–Dead Man’s Float (Copper Canyon Press) [last month #4]

9) John Smolens–Fire Point: A Novel of Suspense (Three Rivers Press/The Crown Publishing Group)

10) Thomas Funke–50 Hikes in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula: Walks, Hikes, and Backpacks from Ironwood to St. Ignace (Countryman Press)

11) Mikel B. Clausen–Teddy Roosevelt & the Marquette Libel Trial (The History Press) [tie]

11) Steve Hamilton–Let It Burn: An Alex McKnight Novel (Macmillan) [tie]

11) Russell M. Magnaghi–Upper Peninsula Beer: A History of Brewing Above the Bridge (Arcadia Publishing) [tie]

11) Michael McDonnell–Masters of Empire: Great Lakes Indians and the Making of America (Hill & Wang/Farrar, Straus and Giroux) [last month #8] [tie]

15) Ron Riekki–Here: Women Writing on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (Michigan State University Press)

The Michigan Bestseller List for March includes twelve Michigan bookstores: Between the Covers in Harbor Springs,facebook.com/btcbookstore; Blue Frog Books in Howell, bluefrogbooksandmore.com; Bookbug in Kalamazoo, bookbugkalamazoo.com; Great Lakes Books & Supply in Big Rapids, greatlakesbook.com; Kazoo Books in north Kalamazoo and south Kalamazoo, kazoobooks.com/; Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor, nicolasbooks.com; Saturn Booksellers in Gaylord, www.saturnbooksellers.com, Schuler Books & Music in Grand Rapids, Lansing and Okemos, schulerbooks.com, and Snowbound Books in Marquette, www.snowboundbooks.com.

A Day Before Frank O’Hara’s 85th Birthday

Screen Shot 2016-04-08 at 12.03.58 PMBY CRAIG COTTER

Put a new bottle of pain meds on the shelf above my desk

knocking down a pile of mementos

including tickets to two Detroit Tiger games from 1976

 

one orange, one blue.

 

I Googled “Detroit Tiger past boxscores”

and got the page from the “Baseball Almanac.”

 

*

 

August 20th was a Friday.

The orange ticket meant lower deck.

I was in SECTION 21, ROW 7, SEAT 1.

 

The blue ticket

SECTION 31, ROW W, SEAT 15

is an UPPER DECK RESERVED seat.

 

*

 

I have no memory of going to Tiger Stadium twice the same week.

I always wanted to go more.

Used to nag my dad—

but he was a frugal and mostly exhausted GM engineer

who often worked in Detroit—and driving back there

from our home in Drayton Plains

somehow didn’t appeal to him.

Was it that he could never see his Brooklyn Dodgers in Tiger Stadium?

 

*

 

I remember Jerry Kitchen’s mother taking us.

I remember Gordy taking Jerry and me and Curt Toth.

 

*

 

I remember sitting in an upper-deck section between home and third

with my family

I’d gone to get hotdogs and drinks

I was 15—

the summer we moved from Michigan—

that worst summer of my life so far,

losing all my friends in one drive to Rochester, New York

for my dad’s promotion back to the mother-ship, Rochester Products.

Ben Oglivie was batting, and he fouled a ball back

that landed at my feet.

I could’ve got it instantly by dropping the food—

but didn’t do it—hands scrambled at my feet and one got the ball.

 

I think one of the games my dad took me to, and we saw Mark Fidrych win—

I seem to remember it being his 18th or 19th win—though late August seems too early for that

as I think he won 19 that rookie season, figure that last win must’ve been deep in September.

 

Maybe I got two games the same week because friends

were taking me for a good-bye game

and my dad too.

I wasn’t speaking much to my dad after he announced we were moving

with no conversation

after I’d complete my 10th grade year at Waterford Kettering High School.

I was fitting in, was doing lights in plays, had friends since earliest memories,

good grades.

Was a brain, was skinny, had friends with all the groups, jocks, stoners, rockers,

losers, nerds, without being in a group.

 

Mr. Tuttle did a test on our social studies class one day.

He walked in on a Monday with our pile of exams.

He apologized for not having time to grade them over the weekend.

He said we’d grade our own.

He passed them down the aisles, then read the answers.

We calculated our scores, then he called us one-by-one

to report our grades.

I had earned an A with 18 of 20 correct.  We had to give our grade and score.

I thought of saying A/19.  He got closer and closer to me as the scores and grades rang out.

I was sweating a bit. I thought I was going to say A/19.

But when he got to me I said, “A/18.”

He finished the verbal collection of the scores.

He sat and assessed the grade book.

 

He then announced this had been a test of honesty.

He had graded all the papers over the weekend, and recorded our scores and grades.

 

[As an interlude I want to say that AT&T is a totally corrupt company.

After I bought my two-year cell plan they took down most of the towers in my neighborhood

of Pasadena, California.  I've had no service within a four block radius of my apartment for two years.

When I call to request a new tower be opened, I have been lied to 20 times that a new tower

is to be installed on X date, but it never was.  My AT&T land-line is not fiber-optic cable

but copper wires wrapped with plastic buried underground in leaking pipes.

When it rains, like it’s been doing a lot lately, there is no land-line service.

Which is the case now—my phones are dead.  When I called them about the dead

land-line the guy said it would be at least 4 days because they don't work weekends.

He then asked me if there was anything else he could help me with.

No irony in his question.

Once the AT&T help person told me she could sell me a cell phone signal booster for $20 a month.

"So my phone doesn't work and you want to take $240 more dollars from me a year

so my phone works like it's supposed to?"

Throughout this two years of criminal corruption, AT&T sends me three flyers per week—

professionally printed—asking me to add high speed internet service

to my AT&T package, and that they would give me a bundled savings rate.

Sometimes when I call reporting no cell or land-line service they ask me if I want to buy their internet

package.

"When the two services I have from you don't work, how could you ever expect I would add a third?"

But enough of what a criminal, corrupt company AT&T is, back to our nostalgic look at my past.]

 

He said, “Everyone in class lied except for Craig and Kelly. Craig got an A/18, Kelly an F/4.”

 

I looked over at Kelley. She was a burn-out, obviously high—and terminally hot.

She smiled her lovely burn-out smile, proud of her F, I smiled back at her briefly

raising my eyebrows slightly.

I’d always liked Kelly.  Her falling asleep in class.  Her smart-ass comments when she

occasionally talked.  The dark circles under her eyes.  Her perfect body.  Her hunky boyfriends.

Her utter disdain for school as I studied and studied.

When we’d find each other side-by-side in a lunch line

there was always mutual respect.

I was never gonna get in her pants, she was never gonna want to hang out with me—

but we accepted the other for our life choices so far.

 

So maybe that Wednesday was Jerry’s mom taking me for a farewell game

and that Friday my dad?

 

I remember the Fidrych game being a sell-out.

And remember looking down at him on the mound—was he 19?—

just 4 years older than me?—talking to the ball, patting the mound with his hands.

And he probably pitched all 9 innings/didn’t Ralph Houk burn out his arm?

Though I remember Ralph later trying to get The Bird back to pitch a few games in Fenway

when he became the Sox manager so Mark could get a major league pension.

But he kept getting shelled and Houk couldn’t get him those last few innings needed.

And then when Mark sucked the next year, and his arm appeared wrecked,

there was also the rumor that he’d made a pass at a married guy’s wife

in a bar in Florida during spring training, and that the guy had screwed his arm up behind his back

tearing an important muscle that never healed.

This seemed like a more logical homeroom explanation for us sex-crazed boys

then that Ralph Houk and the Tiger organization blew out his young arm

by rarely bringing in a relief pitcher for him as the fans had paid to see The Bird.

 

Let’s check the boxscores:

 

It was a double-header with the Twins.  Above the first box score is this quote:

 

“The box score is the catechism of baseball, ready to surrender its truth to the knowing eye.” – Author Stanley Cohen in The Man in the Crowd (1981)

 

Wow, Lyman Bostock was leading off for the Twins,

went 0-for-4.

Wasn’t he the young phenom batting around .330

but got shot to death?  In Chicago?

Someone trying to kill the guy next to him

in the car he was riding in but shot Lyman

in the chest by accident?

I used to love his APBA card

when Jerry and I used to play.

I was wondering if he could develop to hit .400,

something I still want to see

as I wasn’t around for Williams in ’41.

Closest I got was a Brett .390 year and a Carew .376 year

or something like that.

 

And there’s Ron Leflore leading off.

The Tigers would barnstorm summers,

and I met him and several others when they swung through

and played our high school teachers in a softball game

on our baseball field.

The Tigers completely annihilated our teachers.

Norm Cash hit a softball I never saw land it went so far.

Ron LeFlore had a hot bombshell on each elbow

as he walked on the field.

I still have his autograph on a scrap of paper I picked up

from the ground.

 

Hardly anything left from our ’68 Series team.

But there’s Mickey Stanley batting second,

going 0-for-4 and playing first base.

Willie Horton, the man I copied my warm-up swings from,

going 2-for-4 batting clean-up.

Bill Freehan still there, going 0-for-3, batting 7th.

I did love Rusty Staub who bat third—

he was one of our great trades.

And learned to love Aurelio Rodriguez.

 

Roberts got the win and pitched all 9 innings,

and was then 12-12.  I don’t remember him.

No Fidrych and no Ben Oglivie.

Plus I am now vaguely remembering that my dad

took me to the Fidrych win.

 

Horton and LeFlore got doubles.

Willie was a slow runner, especially by then.

It probably would’ve been an inside-the-park homerun

for most other players. He’d often gap them into left-center

420 feet away and just barely make it to second.

I saw him hit a laser rocket into the Green Monster at Fenway

one day on TV—an instant homerun in Tiger Stadium.

It hit so hard it ricochet back to the shortstop and Willie

only got a single.

 

LeFlore stole 2 bases and got caught once.  Loved his speed.

Turns out he’d lied about his age and was older than we knew.

 

Just got a call on my landline—could only hear ringing and static.

 

I do remember the name Hisle in the first box score.

Larry I think his first name was.  Had good power, good average,

and I remember him being a slow base runner.

 

Game 2 of the double-header:

 

The fucking Twins beat us.

 

LeFlore 2 for 5 again.  He was our only .300 hitter.

Well, half way through that line I realized Staub used to do it

too or get close.  Danny Meyer was 2 for 5.  I hated him.

So inconsistent.  And there’s my boy Ben Oglivie, going

2 for 4 with 4 RBIs (we lost 8 to 5).  I loved Ben.

Good power.  We were stupid to trade him.

Mr. Staub DHed and went 1 for 4.

Oh Christ John Wockenfuss caught the second game.

Hated him too.  And the Johnson pinch-hitter—

was that Alex Johnson?  The Tigers were good at

picking up veterans at the end of their careers—

like Eddie Mathews.  I loved Alex Johnson.

He won a bunch of games for us.

 

Fuck, a giant, Rod Carew—he played first base.

He was a lousy second baseman in his prime,

but became an excellent first baseman later in his career.

That man was an amazing hitter.  And he went

3 for 5 with 3 RBIs.  Bostock 2 for 5.  Will have to Google

him and see if I remember him dying young.

 

[Yeah—he was shot with a shotgun in the backseat

of a car by Leonard Smith.  Smith's wife was also in the back seat

and he was trying to shoot her.  He shot Lymon in the head.

He died 2 hours later.  Smith was found guilty by reason

of insanity.  He was released after 21 months, which caused the

Indiana legislature to change its laws about insanity defenses.

Lymon had been in Chicago, but went to Gary, Indiana

to visit his uncle.  You can read the rest on Wikipedia.

I remember being very sad because I liked Lymon.  And being

a closeted 15-year-old gay teen, I also thought he was cute.]

 

Horton and Stanley pinch-hit, but didn’t get hits.  John Hiller

worked some relief—he was one of our big stars.  Had a heart

attack as a player and returned.  Lemanczyk was our starter.

Our pitching sucked then.  Even Hiller gave up 2 earned runs

in 2 innings.  We were a shell of our World Series self.

 

Carew got a double off Hiller.  LeFlore got a triple.  He was so

fast, turned a lot of doubles into triples.  Hisle hit a tater.

Oglivie hit 2 homeruns!  Loved his power.  He got his in

the first and second innings—and now remember wanting

him to get 3 or 4.  Horton was actually intentionally

walked when he came in to pinch-hit.  Good decision by

the manager—Willie was a god.  Only 17,385 in the stands.

 

Wednesday, August 25, 1976:

 

Well, before opening the box score, we won 3-1, which

would’ve been a good Fidrych score.  But my dad—I have

no memory of him taking me to an evening game during

a work-week.  If we went, we went on weekends.  But maybe

this was to try and settle me down after announcing

he was taking all my friends away.

 

Here we go:

 

Yup, Fidrych pitched all 9 innings, giving up 1 run, walking 1

and striking out 1.  I remember he forced a lot of ground

balls.  Had excellent control.  And pitched fast.

 

We were playing the White Sox.  Remember a few of the

names—Hairston, Orta, Lemon, Dent.

 

LeFlore 0-for-4 for the Tigers.  Danny Meyer freaking me out

again with his mediocrity.  (Horton used to play left, now it

was Danny Meyer!)  Oglivie another 2 for 4 day.  Staub DH but

0 for 3.  Just can’t talk much about Jason Thompson.  He had

some power and was an OK firstbaseman.  But he wasn’t

Norm Cash so I never acclimated.  I think he had some bigger

homerun seasons after we traded him for not being Norm

Cash.

 

Bruce Kim catching—not Bill Freehan.

 

We didn’t have a Kaline or Lolich to push us over the top that year.

 

Hmmm, Ben Oglivie made 2 errors in right.  I never saw Al

Kaline make an error in right.  Though he certainly made a few

on his way to 10 Gold Gloves.

 

Jason Thompson stole a base?  He was like 6-5 and lumbering.

Have no memory of that.  Maybe a delayed double-steal?

But Martin wasn’t the manager.  Oglivie stole second in the

6th—he was very fast.

 

Hmm, and we didn’t sell out that day—39,884 in attendance.

Think Tiger Stadium held 45,000 or so people.  Lemme look.

 

[Tiger Stadium saw exactly 11,111 home runs, the last a right field, rooftop grand slam by Detroit’s Robert Fick as the last hit in the last game played there.

 

Only four of the game’s most powerful right-handed sluggers (Harmon Killebrew, Frank Howard, Cecil Fielder and Mark McGwire) reached the left field rooftop.

In his career, Norm Cash hit four home runs over the Tiger Stadium roof in right field and is the all-time leader.

In Detroit on July 13, 1934, Babe Ruth hit his 700th career home run. As noted in Bill Jenkinson’s The Year Babe Ruth Hit 104 Home Runs, the ball sailed over the street behind the then single deck bleachers in right field, and is estimated to have traveled over 500 feet on the fly.

Ruth also had a good day in Detroit earlier in his career, on July 18, 1921, when he hit what is believed to be the verifiably longest home run in the history of major league baseball. It went to straightaway center, as many of Ruth’s longest homers did, easily clearing the then single deck bleacher and wall, landing almost on the far side of the street intersection. The distance of this blow has been estimated at between 575 and 600 feet on the fly.

On May 2, 1939, an ailing New York Yankees first baseman Lou Gehrig voluntarily benched himself at Briggs Stadium, ending a streak of 2,130 consecutive games. Due to the progression of the disease named after him, it proved to be the final game in his career.]

Seems to have held, after last renovation, 54,500.  Though
I bet more got in—there were standing room only admissions

to some of the big games.

*

Time to get some breakfast.  See what’s going on in Los Angeles.

Unstoppable: A Poem by Bill Reyer

Unstoppable

“Life is its own mirage of change.”

T’ao Ch’ien

Nearby the North-Flowing River

roils,

the color of coffee-with-milk,

high in the late-winter

thaw.

The warm south wind

ruffles the waves,

urging them onward

toward the Great fatigued Lake.

River-rocks await

Sandusky’s ebb

to welcome back

the herons

who fish when shallow pools

glimmer with prey.

Unstoppable the surging flow

of seasons,

the beautiful illusion

we call time.

 

Issue 6 available half off for a short time: $5, cheap!

For a short time, we will be offering Issue 6 at a discounted price of $5 plus shipping.

The issue includes poetry, fiction and drama from Michael Zadoorian, Ron Riekki, Dianne Borsenik, Craig Cotter, Michael Steinberg, Devin Murphy, Grace Epstein, Daniel Perry, Emily Kathryn Utter, Chris Pannell, Eugene Ostashevsky, Robert James Russell, Donald G. Evans & Carolyn Saper, Zachary Lee, Brigit Kelly Young, Michael Dunwoody, Dylan Weir, Terence Huber, Kathe Gray, Mary Hawley, Amorak Huey, Lynn Pattison, Mark Ramirez and Janeen Pergrin Rastall.

You can send a check made out to John Counts for $8 to the following address:

Great Lakes Review
P.O. Box 361
Whitmore Lake, MI 48189

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Garden City, Michigan: Corner of Maplewood and Hartel

BY AMY KENYON

This essay is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project.

In an unknown world at the edge of Detroit, there is a green diamond ablaze beneath the sky. We, the young ones in this place of little pattern houses, call it the Lighted Field. Year after year, grasping at childhood, we ride our bikes with streamers on our handlebars, whooshing down Maplewood. Meet me at the Lighted Field, we say. Game or no game. Night or blinding summer day when the sun extinguishes the fierce electric lights. Meet me at the Lighted Field.

Screen Shot 2016-03-29 at 12.40.43 PMBut this night, this 1969 night, burns brighter than sunlight. Sears my memory. Mosquitoes fry high above the infield on white-hot bulbs. Dust flies after base runners. Crowded feet in sandals and sneakers dangle between rows of bleacher seats. Bats pop. Popsicles melt. Top of the ninth. You and I make out behind the clubhouse at the Lighted Field. We run before the inning ends. To Canada.

Soon, your draft notice will land in the family mailbox, but find no soldier boy there to enlist, because of small acts across our childhood years. Chase games, hiding games. A red crayon Valentine slipped through your locker door. Secrets. Blushes. Whispering, camping in the backyard, our homemade tent cloaked in suburban sprawl. Beach towels and transistor radios at the lake. Warm sand coating our skin. Until tonight’s game. Wet, frightened adolescent kisses send us flying for your life. All the way to downtown Detroit in your old Ford, along Michigan Avenue, past the big stadium aglow, right turn to the River, through the Windsor Tunnel and out the other side.

Top of the ninth. Years too late. A summer afternoon, I park my car on Hartel and find a place on the bleachers at the Lighted Field, baking my bare, outstretched legs in the sun. Unknown, unknowable world at the edge of Detroit. There is the clubhouse where you and I used to hide and scheme and make out. Then you went to Vietnam.

No one recognizes me anymore. I watch the game. Until the day of my own death far from this place, if my old mind flickers to the green diamond beneath hot sun or beneath tall electric lights and black sky; or if the words, Lighted Field, flash and then go dark, then one last time, my heart will race and my throat tighten with grief.

A historian, writer and photographer, Amy Kenyon was born in Dearborn, Michigan and spent her childhood in suburban Detroit. She is the author of Dreaming Suburbia (Wayne State University Press) and Ford Road (University o Michigan Press).  

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Manistee National Forest, Michigan: The Bear

BY FRITZ SWANSON

This essay is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project.

5ACBD117-2B08-4EFC-A3DC-1C9D7EDAB3A7The Sunday after the memorial services, we all went morel hunting.

Sara found two more morels in the front yard of her mother’s house. I had found one the day before, amidst dead wood along M-55, where lumber trucks barreled out of the Manistee National Forest. With three morels found, even though the season was long over, we decided to take the kids and grandpa out into the forest to hunt for more beneath overcast summer skies.

We drove a few miles west and pulled off at a sign (erected in 1983) celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of a Civilian Conservation Corp camp that had toiled in the woods during the Depression. Beyond the first tree line, in the clear path beneath new power lines, Oscar (age 5), stumbled along in the grass with his hands outstretched. Abigail (age 2), toddled after her ‘buther’.

“C’mere, little cabbage moth,” Oscar said quietly, his hands moving up and down, following the loping, drunk flight of the small insect.

Beyond the second tree line, along fallen poplars, we found cup fungus, white shelf fungus, and richly colored sulphur fungus. But there were too many pines, and so we marched west were we saw more beech and oak leaves.

As we ascended a sandy hill, we found angled iron set in old, crumbling concrete.

“What was here, Dad?” Oscar asked.

“I guess it was part of the old camp for the men who worked here years ago,” I replied, uncertain. We found several stout concrete posts arrayed around a large cone of concrete almost as tall as me, with a bent and rusting piece of rebar atop it.

“A toad!” grandpa called, happily, and Oscar and Abigail ran over with me following. The toad hopped amidst the shepherd hook sprouts of fiddle head ferns, hiding beneath maple saplings. All across the forest floor, sprouting from the leaves, were tiny mushrooms and white star-flowers.

Oscar chirped as he raised his cupped hands. And inside, frightened but safe, there was the tiny form of a gray tree frog with his yellow inner thighs pulled close against his white belly.

Oscar carried him deeper into the ruins of the camp while Sara and grandpa looked under fallen logs for morels. Abigail wrapped her hand around one of my fingers. “I looking for river,” she said to me seriously. I picked her up and carried her on my hip. She whispered in my ear, “You can find a big river, and,” I leaned close to feel her lips against my cheek. Then she said, “and I find a teeny tiny river.”

Beyond the ruins there was a huge treeless bowl between two hills. Down the eastern slope of the bowl, as we descended, we found crumbling shingles, maybe from the camp, maybe dumped years later.

“I think,” Oscar said, stumbling across the shingles, “that a house sank here into the hill.”

We really didn’t have any better explanation.

But then he fell and landed on his cupped hand.

“Is the frog okay!” Sara asked, concerned. “Are you okay, Oscar?”

We examined Oscar, and the frog, and found that both were okay. Oscar took the frog back up the hill into the wet leaves beneath the trees and released him by a corner of exposed concrete.

The clouds drew close, and the air was cool.

“Maybe it rain,” Abigail said, toddling out into the treeless expanse of the open bowl. At the northern end of the bowl was a high mound built by aggressive black and red ants. At the southern end there was the curled over gray stump of some long dead tree.

The forest behind us had been a mix of pine and poplar and oak, but the forest up the western slope of the bowl was entirely deciduous, and it was there that we marched to look again for mushrooms.

“Look, here are two!” Sara called out. But when we came closer, we saw that the mushrooms had gone black and peeled back at the head. They were days old and had gone bad.

Oscar and Grandpa marched steadily further west, out onto a lumber road, where they played hey-batter-batter-swing with sticks and stones.

As Sara and Abigail and I searched, we found clumps of morels every ten or fifteen feet, all at the same level, half way up the western slope of the bowl, beneath rotting logs or against ancient trees. But every time, the morels had gone bad, turning black, melting back into the sandy loam of the hillside.

And along with the morels, a little further of up the hill, we kept finding the heavy odorless scat of brown bear. Abigail was getting tired, tumbling down into the leaves, whimpering a little.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Sara said after we found the third pile of bear scat. The bear had been marching around the western half of the bowl for quite a while, staying up along one level of the hill, drawn here for some reason.

Abigail pulled down the top of a fiddlehead fern to inspect the curled end. “Worm,” she said to me, indicating the curled up head of the fern.

At the end of it all, we had found ten rotting morels.

Defeated, we marched back down into the bowl. Abigail, exhausted, cried into Sara’s shoulder. And in the dead center of the bowl, on the flat sandy ground beneath ferns and atop star flowers, we found a skull.

“Is it a deer?” Sara asked.

But it was too stout, a deer skull usually stretching  out at the snout.

“No,” I said tentatively, “I think it belonged to a bear. Maybe a juvenile.”

It was missing its canines, so it was hard to tell, but that’s what I think rested in the middle of the great open bowl in the forest.

I scooped up Abigail, and as she wailed, I marched back to the car.

Oscar, holding Sara’s hand, paused over the skull.

“Are you scared,” Sara asked.

I crested the hill, almost jogging along the old concrete left behind by the men who had restored this wild place after a century of heavy logging.

I heard Oscar say, “No, Mom. I think I’m just a little sad.”

Fritz Swanson is the Director of Wolverine Press, the letterpress studio for the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan. His writing has appeared in such places as McSweeney’s, The Believer, The Christian Science Monitor and Esopus.

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