Waters.
Rising.
Unable to lift his head, Craig inhales the muddy liquid, coughing to no avail.
Is it the choking, the bone-numbing chill, or the aches throughout his body that dominate the last of Craig’s thoughts?
The answer will forever remain a mystery.
Chapter
One
They say all roads lead somewhere, and what goes around comes around. Those sayings intermingle through my thoughts as I drive on the once-familiar roads. Beyond the windows of my rented Honda sedan are miles of countryside. Farms and fields. Though many are currently overrun with tall grasses and inhabited by vermin, I recall a time when friends played on what was once a lawn, and when crops grew and livestock roamed the fields.
As the sun settles near the horizon, I wrestle with the decision that brought me here, questioning if I can come face-to-face with my past. Instead of driving to my intended destination, I continue wandering the back roads, enchanted by abandoned cattle feeders camouflaged in faded, outdated graffiti and captivated by the rustic, dilapidated silos, and decaying barns.
It’s no wonder that similar structures are often the focus of artist renderings. There’s a sad beauty in theweathered wood and rusted metal, especially when showcased by the crimson of the reddening sky.
I shake away the chill and uneasy sense of foreboding. It’s been with me, surrounding me like a thick fog, since this trip began. From the time I boarded the airplane, the sense of doom has accompanied me—my unwelcome travel companion.
The book that I’m listening to through the car’s speakers fades away, replaced by memories no longer trickling like a creek during the summer. The dam that I constructed over the years to hold them at bay has given way, shattered by my location. The narrator’s words are lost as scenes I thought were gone flow effortlessly around the recesses of my mind, settling in a mosaic I’m too close to fully see.
Those memories are a mix of melancholy and fondness.
Nearly six years have passed since I said goodbye to these roads, fields, and inhabitants. Over half a decade since I laid eyes on the place I used to call home.
Abandoned buildings and yards set between functioning farms and lovely homes fill the views beyond the windows, each one accompanied by the ghosts of a time gone by. I’m traveling through the outskirts of Blue Gil.
Yes, the town where I grew up is named after a freshwater fish.
As children, we were told that the unusual spelling was purposeful to disguise the true origin. Generations before us reiterated stories of the town’s settler, a man with the last name of Gil. Those tales were recited at firesides but never recorded. There’s no documentationto confirm the validity of the mysterious Mr. Gil, just the knowledge that this area contains a plethora of lakes. It doesn’t take a Rhodes scholar to credit the fish with the town’s name.
While the livelihood of many of the inhabitants in this area has changed over the years, there is still life. People here live, love, and continue their daily pursuits.
Gone, for the most part, are the small farms and roadside stands selling fresh produce. In their place are large conglomerates tilling the land and providing pastures for cattle and hogs.
Some of the larger employers of yesteryear have closed or moved elsewhere. Factories sit abandoned where tennis shoes or RVs were once made. Other large buildings that once provided employment are also gone, demolished for green space.
God knows there’s plenty of that in Southern Michigan.
Yet other businesses have transformed over the years, finding new life.
An example of a new purpose is a local music venue. During my childhood there was a ski lodge and slopes. The ski lodge closed my senior year of high school, a consequence of the fickle weather and an uncertain economy. After a few years of abandonment, a new investor renovated the space, turning the entire property into a concert venue. While the land no longer draws patrons in the winter, in the warmer months it has found new life.
The lifts that once carried skiers now carry partiers to hilltop bars, cleverly designed to look like lodges. Even inthe summer there are roaring firepits. From high above, the patrons enjoy tremendous views, overlooking a large stage. Throughout the summer season, local bands and even a few headliners fill the evening breeze with various melodies and musical talents.
Summer is the season this area flourishes.
While the warm months have always been a time of growth, that has also shifted. No longer is the focus solely on the remaining working farms. It’s the thousands of miles of shoreline surrounding freshwater lakes in this and nearby counties that draw the people.
During my childhood many of those shorelines were rugged and wild. Today, they’re groomed with manicured lawns and seawalls constructed of colorful concrete blocks.
Where smaller cabins and cottages were once the norm, mini-mansions with five bedrooms, tennis courts, and infinity pools now stand. Most of the owners of these monstrosities are not insiders, the term that means local.
The owners of the lakeside mansions are predominately successful businessmen and -women from afar. These outsiders travel each weekend in the summer and over holidays from lives in metropolitan meccas such as Chicago and Detroit. They endure the drive so as to unwind, working all week for the opportunity to rev the engines of their speedboats, kick up wakes, and lounge within their screen-enclosed decks with drinks in hand.
Those summer residents who are fortunate to work from home travel to this area as soon as the weatherpermits, staying until the leaves begin to change from shades of green to yellow and rust.
