Luczak Compassion, Michigan

The Ironwood Stories
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-61599-529-5
Verlag: Modern History Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 198 Seiten

Encompassing some 130 years in Ironwood's history, Compassion, Michigan illuminates characters struggling to adapt to their circumstances starting in the present day, with its subsequent stories rolling back in time to when Ironwood was first founded. What does it mean to live in a small town--so laden with its glory day reminiscences--against the stark economic realities of today? Doesn't history matter anymore? Could we still have compassion for others who don't share our views?
A Deaf woman, born into a large, hearing family, looks back on her turbulent relationship with her younger, hearing sister. A gas station clerk reflects on Stella Draper, the woman who ran an ice cream parlor only to kill herself on her 33rd birthday. A devout mother has a crisis of faith when her son admits that their priest molested him. A bank teller, married to a soldier convicted of treason during the Korean War, gradually falls for a cafeteria worker. A young transgender man, with a knack for tailoring menswear, escapes his wealthy Detroit background for a chance to live truly as himself in Ironwood. When a handsome single man is attracted to her, a popular schoolteacher enters into a marriage of convenience only to wonder if she's made the right decision.
RAYMOND LUCZAK, a Yooper native, is the author and editor of 24 books, including Flannelwood. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
'These are stories of extremely real women, mostly disappointed by life, living meagerly in a depleted town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Sound depressing? Not at all. Luczak has tracked their hopes, their repressed desires, and their ambitions with the elegance and precision of one of those silhouette artists who used to snip out perfect likenesses in black paper; people 'comforted by the familiarity of loneliness,' as he writes.' --EDMUND WHITE, author of

Autoren/Hrsg.

Luczak, Raymond

Leseproben

Numbers Six and Seven

ONCE UPON A time we seven siblings breathed and lived and played together as a single organism. We had names, but we never thought of ourselves as truly separate beings. We moved as one wherever we went. People around town always said, “Look at ’em Forester kids going off again.” The common joke was that our parents hadn’t known when to stop making babies. We didn’t understand why these strangers would cackle with a gleeful wink, but we didn’t care. There was always something new to discover in our backyard or the next one beyond that.

Sometimes we pretended to be mountaineers climbing Mount Everest, which was nothing more than a face of crag shaved off the side of a hill two blocks away from Norrie School. We carried up heavy backpacks, stuffed with pillows and sleeping bags even though we had no need for them in broad daylight. The boulders were easy to conquer, so we yelled, “Look out!” just to spook each other for giggles, and we jumped around and whooped it up once we got to the top. We talked about how we would hop on the next rocket from Cape Kennedy and shoot off for the moon where we would boing like balloons and leave behind big footprints and wave back at the earth looking like a pretty marble. We didn’t have an U.S. flag to stake and claim the moon as our own, but we were already plotting our next adventure.

Below us was the only world we knew then: the tree-lined cave-ins and St. Michael Church’s steeple rising out of the low skyline of Ironwood on our right, and the small and sloping hills of our neighborhood where houses were mostly hidden by enormous trees straight ahead of us. We were never happy that we couldn’t see our own house from our mountain. We tried using a pair of binoculars once. Too many trees in the way. We never climbed the mountain in winter because it was caked with dribbles of ice. We relished each snow day by piling on layers of clothes, scarves, threaded mitts, snow pants, and snowmobile boots, and heading out to the backyard where snowdrifts, whipped to great heights by blizzards, awaited our conquest. Sometimes we could not move quickly so we fell backwards and tasted the snowflakes falling on our faces. We made snow angels. If the snow had the right stickiness, we made snowmen.

In the summer, we took particular pleasure in taking shortcuts through other people’s yards and stealing handfuls of sugar snap peas from their gardens and clapping our hands at the chained dogs just to get them to bark like crazy. Sometimes the neighbors scolded us, but we laughed it off and headed toward Norrie School. It was our favorite place. It had a huge playground with tall swings, monkey bars, and a basketball court. The school was tall and wide with august-colored bricks, and a very tall chimney was stuck in the middle of its roof. Winters it puffed out a great deal of smoke, and every late morning we could smell the cafeteria food wafting from the south hallways where the gymnasium was. It housed kids from kindergarten all the way up to eighth grade. We siblings passed each other in the hallways and on the playground every day, but we never said hello. It was somehow understood that all seven of us would gather near the side door on the west side and walk together the four blocks home. We felt better together.

Such is the story I’d like to believe about the family you and I grew up in.

FOR A LONG time I didn’t know the names of our siblings: Victoria, Patricia, John, Will, Colleen, me, and you—five girls and two boys. I knew them first by their faces and by the way they moved their lips. I thought it was odd how they opened and closed their lips in so many different ways. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to do the same thing, but my lip movements looked nothing like theirs. It was easier not to use my lips. It was more fun to chase them all over the house.

Our parents stopped and looked at me one day. Their faces said an entire story in less than a second. Something was wrong.

Eventually I was outfitted with a pair of shiny and heavy boxes cloistered in a harness strapped across my chest. The big fat molds that fit inside my ears began to hurt after a few hours, and I took them out and hid them in my pockets. No one told me that I had to keep them in my ears, not until it was time to eat. Mom scolded me each time for taking them out. She gestured that I had to put them back in. Sometimes they hurt so much I cried.

Mom brought me to Norrie School where a nice lady sat at a low table with me in a borrowed classroom. She wore her orange-tinted hair tight in a bun and a few tiny gold necklaces around her brown turtleneck. Her polyester pants had a riot of white, tan, and brown circular outlines. I liked her brown eyes because she never rolled her eyes when I could not understand her. The shiny baubles on her wrists fascinated me. Once she realized this, she removed them to her purse and gently said, “Look at me.”

I took my earmolds out.

“Do they hurt?”

I nodded.

She examined them and pulled out a nail file from her purse. She filed down the tubular edges of my molds and wiped them clean with a spray of rubbing alcohol.

The molds didn’t hurt as much.

I decided I liked Mrs. Gates.

Beyond this, I do not remember anything more, except that I learned to speak. I started to connect the odd language of disjointed lips and half-heard words, and tried to translate them the best I could. I sat in the front row of each class I attended and focused on the teacher’s face.

I tagged along with our siblings on their many adventures. I rarely spoke. I was too busy watching their faces and mimicking their movements.

I didn’t understand how the older they became, the less they wanted me around.

That is when you saved me. True story.

UP AND DOWN the street the oak trees grew their green hair until their heads swelled, casting wide bouffant shadows in their wake. When we pedaled our bikes hard up the sidewalk to our house, the shade cooled our sweat. Sometimes we left our bikes against the trees when we had to run into the house for a quick bathroom stop or a sip of lemonade, made from a powdery mix, before we ran back outside for a ride somewhere.

Sometimes we zipped past Mrs. Southern’s house and her dog that always barked like mad from behind the fence, turning the corner left around Mr. Zakofsky’s house where he hosed rows of his vegetables every morning, and waving hello at Billy, the fat and scruffy mechanic who usually stood inside the shade of his garage to smoke when he wasn’t fixing cars. We knew the faces of each neighbor who lived in these houses along the way to town. We had watched them talk with Mom many times. Sometimes they simply wanted to unload a bag full of zucchinis, and sometimes she would turn around and give them away to an older woman who lived on the other side of town.

No one liked Mrs. Harter. We never knew how old she was, but her face had the most wrinkles of anyone we saw. She had a longish wattle under her chin. We called her the Turkey Lady when no one was around. She always wore a thin sweater even during summer. We never understood how it was possible for anyone to feel cold in the hot months. Our house never had air conditioning; we left the windows wide open. We never knew the full details of Mrs. Harter’s story, but she did not have a husband, or rather, she had a husband who died in World War II. When Mom handed over a big grocery bag of zucchinis, she smiled at each one of us. We didn’t like her because there was something fake about her. We couldn’t quite put our finger on what it was, but we never talked about it. Once she was out of sight, we never thought about her. Mom said that helping Mrs. Harter was her way of being a better Christian and we should do the same thing for others too.

We didn’t quite grasp that America had fought many wars. We’d overheard names like Germany, Korea, and Vietnam, but they had nothing to do with us. These names were something like bad words among some of the men who sat on the porch over at Mr. Quinn’s house two blocks over. If the winds were strong enough, we could catch a whiff of their cigar smoke from half a block away. In the twilight their faces melted into the shadows of their voices, which turned quieter until they whispered themselves into oblivion.

By then we’d be tired from trying to capture fireflies with our jars and lying on the big baseball field where we looked straight up at the stars. We pointed out this or that star, but we’d never studied astronomy. So many stars were diamonds waiting to fall and turn into snow in the darkness of winter. Summer was just a way of storing them, much like how in the autumn the squirrels scattered about our street, snatching up one acorn after another.

When we pedaled to town, it was to pick out a scoop of ice cream at Stella’s Palace. It had some other name, but someone jokingly called it her palace from the way she mispronounced the word “parlor.” The name fit because of how she ruled the place. You knew her royal presence once you entered. She always wore a yellow top with a white collar, and she had three people, usually college students, wearing the same outfit. She made sure she knew all of our names, and she always asked after our parents. She had a great smile. Once we were done eating, we hopped on our bikes and pedaled as fast as we could home.

These are the stories that our siblings like to tell each other at family reunions. It’s been years since I’ve gone back.

OUR HOUSE...