Those residents who enjoy their retreat don’t call Blue Gil home. They come in with the rising temperatures and leave as the high school stadium fills with locals—insiders—on Friday nights to cheer the area’s celebrities.
Being mid-May, the outsiders’ time is around the corner.
The lakeshores aren’t limited to outsiders. Locals have the homes they’ve enjoyed for generations. And even others have their own lakes, what others may call a pond. Dotted across the county are large, gated plots of land with the pristine lawns obscured from the road by thick, thorned hedges. These estates are transformed or reconstructed family farms, complete with the Thomas Kinkade home—glowing windows and large wraparound porches.
These belong to the residents who changed with the times, found income in new ways, and yes, those who come from old money.
What’s startling, as I continue to drive, is how quickly the landscape can change.
A mile farther down the road from a gated estate is a farmhouse in need of repair, inhabited with boarded windows and only a woodstove for heat. Farther along is another example, a single-wide trailer with a no-longer-needed oversized satellite dish still sitting in the yard, along with a few broken-down vehicles.
Not all residents live in one of the extremes—wealth or poverty.
As the eldest daughter of Jerry and Shannon Thorne, I grew up somewhere in between.
The home where my parents still live is closer to town in a neighborhood northeast of Main Street. Don’t call my hometown a city. In actuality, it is an incorporated village. Having just driven down Main Street, I can attest to the presence of three stoplights, a Dollar Store, and the same library my grandparents frequented. There are three churches of varying Christian denominations—one on the main thoroughfare and two a few blocks away.
At one time the Catholic one was the largest. More recently it is the Baptist. By the appearance of the new addition, the Methodist church is growing. There are also two gas stations, a hardware store, and the Sunshine Café, a restaurant that serves food from breakfast until eight at night. The bank on Main Street has been family owned for over one hundred years. Blue Gil also has an assortment of professional offices—insurance agents, accountants, and lawyers.
The laundromat stayed in business when it partnered with the dry cleaner. And at the east end of Main Street, past the railroad tracks and before the cemetery, is the longest and strongest surviving business, the Walleye Tavern, the local bar.
Blue Gil wasn’t always this way. When I was incredibly young, we had two grocery stores and even a department store. That was what my grandma called it. There wasn’t a name such as Nordstrom’s or Saks. It was simplythe department store, where we found everything from winter coats to swimming suits.
Time changes more than businesses. It changes people and families.
After I left this small town following my high school graduation, I headed west for college to study journalism. My major changed to law, and I finally settled on criminal justice with a minor in psychology. During those transitions, I made choices to stay away from the town where I was raised.
It wasn’t that I wiped the dust from my boots at the village-limits sign, vowing to never return. I’ve never had the ability to be that definitive.
Rather, my absence was a slow parade of decisions—declining my mother’s invitation for the holiday and then refusing my sister’s invitation for her graduation. It was the choice to work through my summer break one year and take a chance internship the next. It was choosing to go on vacation with friends, instead of returning for my brother’s football state finals.
You see the decision to slash the roots holding me to this town wasn’t conscious, and yet each opportunity missed became another cut severing my connection. It was a separation that I enjoyed and maintained until two days ago.
One phone call reconnected me to Blue Gil.
A few plane rides later, and I arrived in Kalamazoo.
The securing of a rental car now has me minutes away from my childhood home, the current residence of my parents and youngest sister. Instead of heading there, I continue east toward the cemetery.
The sign on the entrance warns visitors that the grounds close at nightfall.
A quick check of the darkening spring sky tells me that the clock is ticking. Yet the gate never closes. The only consequence of trespassing after dark would be a visit from one of the village’s finest, questioning my presence. The officer wouldn’t care if I was here for my job or personal reasons. In a town like this, my familial connection would serve me best.
“Yes, Officer. You see, I’m Jerry and Shannon Thorne’s oldest.” A nod. “Yes, it has been a while.”
The car’s tires bounce as I leave Main Street and drive onto the narrow gravel road within the gate. Generations of Blue Gillians found their resting place within this plot of land.
Legend has it that the land for the cemetery was donated to the city before the Civil War by a local abolitionist. He wanted a suitable resting place for everyone in need. This legend, unlike the town’s name, is based on documented facts.
Some people may not realize that Southern Michigan was a busy hub on the Underground Railroad. It was. The village cemetery welcomed and still welcomes each inhabitant and passer-through, giving every soul a proper burial.
With the sky growing darker, I pull the car to the side of the lane, past the Thorne family tombstones, and roll to a stop. I’m not here to visit my deceased family but to locate the most recent addition to Blue Gil Cemetery. Though the marker hasn’t yet been placed, the freshly packed dirt, pile of dying flowers, and smashed grass collectively could be a neon sign.
A cool spring breeze blows my long red hair as I wrapmy arms around my midsection. The sweater and blue jeans I donned back in California aren’t warm enough for Michigan’s evening chill.
I take a step as the ground gives way, soft from a recent rain. My shoes sink deep into the rich soil as I walk closer to the freshly filled grave.
What do I expect to find?
