The Bay View Literary MagazineOvertones

Summer 2017

Volume 12

EDITORS’ NOTE

Bay View friends and neighbors have once again shared their thoughts and experiences. The theme of overtones speaks to the intimations found in several of the texts, a weaving of historical accounts and more abstract impressions and dreams. This year we recognize the Bay View handbell choir and once again offer special thanks to John Agria (Bay View Photographer 2000 to 2014) for our cover photograph. We express our gratitude to those who contributed to the 2017 edition of The Bay View Literary Magazine.

To submit your writing for the 2018 edition, please see The Back Page.

Scott DrinkallMarjorie Andress Bayes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

John Agria Cover Photograph Debbie Hindle Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom ...................................4Mary Jane Doerr A True 21st Century Friend..........................9William (Bill) Ostler Selected Writings and Artwork ..................11Hannah Rees Selected Writings .......................................16Laurie Kavanagh Selected Artwork ........................................18Beverly Brandt Selected Writings .......................................20Ruth Dyer An Oral History ..........................................22John Dyer A Lifetime of Memories .............................25Ellery Liddicoat Selected Writings .......................................27Jean Liberty Pickett Selected Writings .......................................28Gerald Faulkner Selected Writings .......................................30Boo Kiesler Closing the Cottage ....................................32Doug Bowden A High Bar Indeed (A Communion Homily) ............................34 The Back Page ...........................................36

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MRS. ALLEN’S TEAROOM

By Debbie Hindle

Jeanne Androit, Joyce (Androit) Watson, Barbara (Brown) Kanaga, Carol (Lau) Darnton, Margie (Martsolf) Willson, Debbie (Sangston) Hindle, Becky (Stephens) Barrows, Debby (Stephens) Cella, Heidi (Stephens) Witesel, Carol (Young) Landers, Kathy (Zehnder) Brown

In the late 1800’s the demand for accommodation in Bay View was such that in addition to the five hotels – The Bay View House, the Hilton Hotel (now Ruth Crist Hall), the Howard House (now Stafford’s Bay View Inn), the Southern (Block 17, Lot 1), and the Terrace Inn – there were over 35 rooming houses (Doerr, 2010:16). These rooming houses provided not only accommodation, but also meals. Many cottagers congregated in the various houses rather than cook at home in what were often small and poorly equipped kitchens.

Now, only the Bay View Inn and the Terrace Inn are still open to the public and virtually all the traditional rooming houses have gone. By the 1950s and 1960s, only one rooming house operated more or less as rooming houses would have done at the turn of the century – Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom (Block 25 Lot 1). However, when we checked the Archives, we found no record of this property having been a rooming house – no advertisements and no building permits or inspections. Barbara (Brown) Kanaga remembers thinking it odd that there was no signage that advertised their establishment on the Allen’s cottage. Yet, a number of us have vivid memories of having worked there serving meals. It has taken all of us listed above to pull together our memories of Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom – a piece of social history that is in danger of being lost if not recorded.

The Allens owned their cottage from August 1951 until June 1973 and lived on the premises. We are not sure whether it was open as a rooming house throughout this period, but we know that they had rooms upstairs for guests and that Christine Harpring and her sister stayed there every summer. Meals were provided for the guests staying in these individual rooms, but also non-residents could book for dinner or buy a ‘season pass’ and pay in advance for evening meals for the summer. For some families, such as the Martsolfs and the Stephens, this was a way for their families to meet and eat together,

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and a welcome release from shopping and cooking at home. Otherwise, this was a time when few families ate out regularly, rather eating out tended to be reserved for special occasions. We were not sure what a ‘season ticket’ cost, but Becky (Stephens) Barrows said that in 1960, an evening meal during the weekdays was $1.25 and for Sunday dinner the price went up to $1.40 (prices we could never imagine paying today!)

The cottage itself had a large ‘wrap-around’ porch with rocking chairs and a porch swing where people assembled as they arrived before meals. On entering the cottage, there were two main rooms with five or six tables each, all beautifully set with table cloths, old china and silverware (occasionally, Mrs. Allen would open a back room with a few more tables if needed). There were two fireplaces in the two main rooms, although none of us had any memory of their being used. In the larger of the two rooms, there was a large bay window with a circular table that seated six people. There was one sitting and dinner was served between 5:30 and 6 p.m. (although on Sunday after church, there were two sittings). There were no pre-dinner drinks or wine with meals (at that time the whole of Bay View was ‘dry’) – just plain cooking, everything homemade, comforting and good.

Mrs. and Mr. Allen sourced and cooked the evening meals, providing fixed menu options. The starters were either soup or tomato juice, followed by either a lettuce salad, coleslaw or a ‘jello’ salad. There were just two ice cubes in each glass of water! (Presumably ice was at a premium as there were certainly no ice-makers attached to the fridge in those days.) This was followed by a main course of meat or chicken with potatoes and vegetables – whatever was prepared for that day, all cooked on a wood stove (no one had any memory of fish ever being served). Rather there seemed to be ‘specials’ for certain days – Thursday was fried chicken and mashed potatoes and Sunday was roast beef. There was, however, a choice of desserts – pie, cake or ice cream. Mrs. Allen was renowned for her pies – her lemon meringue pie seems to have stuck in our combined memories! Finally coffee, “Sanka” – or “Postum” or tea was offered to round off the meal.

The kitchen itself was very old fashioned – with two stoves, one a wood-burning stove, no dishwasher and a very large old refrigerator. All meals were served in the kitchen on a large table. There was a pull-out Hoosier cabinet and all the meals were carried to the dining room on decorated metal trays. (We doubt that it would have met modern commercial kitchen standards!)

But even a rooming house needs servers and all of us listed above worked for part or

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all of our summers in the late 50’s and 60’s as waitresses in Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom. On arrival each evening, we had to memorize the menu, ask guests for their choices, serve the courses and wash up all the dishes. We got our evening meal and tips, but no salary! We are not sure that anyone now would take up such an offer, but suddenly, we were ‘working’ and had some money of our own! Barbara (Brown) Kanaga remembers us counting our tip money at the end of the night. We don’t remember that we had any training as such, although we were instructed to serve ‘from the right.’ We wore aprons, had our hair tied back and wore skirts (not slacks) to serve. Each evening meal there were two or three of us serving.

Now, 50 years on, each of us has memories of this remarkable ‘institution.’ I have incorporated most of what everyone sent me in the body of this text, but several people have written a number of memorable ‘events’ which brings their time at Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom to life:

Debby (Stephens) Cella writes:

Mr. Allen was funny and Mrs. Allen serious. Sometimes I remember she’d get a little exasperated with him – just a little.

The Stephens and Martsolfs were close friends since early in their marriages. The families always ate together at Mrs. Allen’s. Our moms were delighted to get a vacation from cooking and by seating us kids together they could have adult conversations. The parents, however, always took turns being the one to face the kids’ table – ready to give us the evil eye if we misbehaved, which we frequently did, at least to a small degree. I remember once when I was old enough to know better, one of us, who shall remain nameless, loosened the top of the saltshaker.

The cottage had lots of old antiques and knick-knacks on the walls. There was some sort of mask perhaps made of leather that our older siblings told me was a shrunken head! I was young enough at the time to believe him and I remember not wanting to look at the object. Outside I remember also there was a set of 3 cement steps at the curb facing the street. They seemed to be steps to nowhere and I asked Mom why they were there and she said they were from the “olden days” when there were horses and carriages and early automobiles which were high off the ground, making it easier to get in and out of.

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We kids were always allowed to be excused to go outside and play after we finished dinner, giving our parents a chance to have some adult conversation in peace. Once, when I was perhaps 9 or 10, Rob and Margie Martsolf and I decided to kneel backward on the front porch swing and pushing against the cottage windowsill in order to go higher. The swing tipped over backward. Margie and Rob jumped off in time but I didn’t make it and smashed my face against the windowsill, blooding my lip and nose. Margie and Robbie’s father, Dr. John Martsolf, a surgeon, whom I called Uncle John, came running out having seen us through the window. He looked at Rob. He was OK. Then, Margie. She was OK. He picked me up and my face was a bloody mess. But after examining me more closely, knew I was not seriously hurt. I think his white dinner jacket took a beating though. I got blood all over it. The next day I had a major fat lip and black and blue nose. My sisters, trying to make me laugh – or so they said, called me fish face and I refused to go to Club for a week!

In my teens I waitressed at Mrs. Allen’s. My parents and the Martsolfs continued eating dinners there, but their children had matured and I’m sure their dinners were more peaceful. However there was the occasional mishap by the staff. This time it was me. Dr. Fred Martsolf, who some of us called Grandpa Fred, had ordered ice cream for dessert. I brought in all the desserts for the table on a tray, holding it in one hand or perhaps balancing the edge of the tray on the table. As I served his ice cream, which was in a little ice cream dish with a stem and set it on a “liner” plate, the bowl of ice cream tipped over and I, in a remarkable feat of dexterity, caught it...against the back of Dr. Fred’s sport jacket. I held the ice cream against his suit jacket cupped inside the ice cream dish. For some ridiculous reason, I kept thinking I didn’t want to drop it on the floor. Dr. Fred kept saying, “Get it off! Get it off!” So I just scooped it up off his back and plopped the dish, ice cream and all, down in front of him. I don’t remember if he ate it!

Carol (Young) Landers remembers:

I remember that the bathroom had an old-fashioned wooden toilet tank high up that you flushed with a pull chain. In the main dining room, there was a tray table, but when we needed to put a huge tray of plates on it, there was Miss Sherry’s little draw sting purse on it! She was also the one who usually left us a dime tip and the one who drank hot water with lemon, no tea bag, and used a tiny foot

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stool for her feet because her feet didn’t reach the floor. Most Sundays, the Marstolf boys were all spiffy in their white pants and sport coats and Margie wore sweet sundresses. Most memorably was Grandpa Fred signing ‘adoption papers’ on birch bark adopting Debby Stephens & me because we loved him so much! And finally, Archie sneaking a scoop of ice cream into the palm of our hand!

Joyce (Androit) Watson remembers:

Carol (Lau) Darnton and I worked at least 3 years at Mrs. Allen’s Tearoom in the mid to late 50’s. We would spend the afternoons on the beach and at 5:10 pm would run up to Carol’s cottage near the Terrace Inn and get out of our swimsuits and into our uniforms, which Carol’s mother bought for us at Penney’s for about $7. The Lau’s had a washing machine and Carol’s mother washed them for us. We did not have a washing machine at my cottage so mine always stayed at Carol’s. We always made it to work with zero minutes to spare!!!! Carol served the dinners and I served the drinks, and yes we had the lady that left a dime. We always threatened to forget her, and one night Carol did and I thought she was making good on our threat and, of course, I didn’t bring her drink. But Carol really forgot her. As far as I know she never complained. One summer we had a student work with us who really enjoyed the free meal, and we shared tips 3 ways. The Martsolfs and Stephens children were always dressed for dinner and were perfectly behaved in the dining room.

This was quite an endeavor to capture this moment in the life of Bay View. For all of us collaborating on this, it has brought back fond memories of people, good times and a bygone era.

ReferencesDoerr, M. J. (2010) Bay View: An American Idea, The Priscilla Press, Allegan Forest Michigan. Debbie Hindle has been coming to Bay View since childhood. She is now a semi-retired child and adolescent psychotherapist, living and working in Glasgow, Scotland for half the year and in Cross Village, Michigan the other half of the year, as well as a cottage owner and member of the Woods Committee in Bay View.

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A TRUE 21ST CENTURY FRIEND

By Mary Jane Doerr

Meet Jane. I probably met her more than 15 years ago. I was researching the life of her father-in-law and her uncle-in-law, Paul and Brand Blanshard. Going through the catalog (there were only hard copies then) at the Oakland Community College Library inOakland County Michigan, I had happened upon Paul’s autobiography a mere 12 feet from my desk. Much to my amazement, the first 43 pages were about Bay View.

I went home and immediately put Paul Blanshard’s name into the Internet. There was no Googling at that time but I now had the names of his two sons Paul Jr. and Rufus. There was ONE entry in the entire country – Paul’s second son Rufus Blanshard, in Storrs,Connecticut. Paul wrote in his autobiography the “s” in his name has made all thedifference for people trying to contact him. “Back then” the Internet brought up theindividual addresses and phone numbers without charge. So, why not, I thought. I will call this man and hope he is the Rufus I am looking for. What can he do – hang up on me?

“Paul was my father,” said the voice proudly on the other end.

I told him I was writing an article about his father and uncle for a publication in Northern Michigan. That was the beginning of a wonderful relationship with both Rufus and his wife Jane. He told me to mail him a copy of what I had written. We used “snail mail” in those days which wasn’t too long ago. Jane, a professional editor, marked up my copy with dozens of red symbols, suggestions, and details on what should be done. The article finally became a chapter in Bay View, An American Idea.

Jane and Rufus knew Bay View well. Rufus, of course, had spent time here as a child and remembered how fond his father was of his childhood home. Rufus was a professor and held a doctoral degree from Harvard University. Jane’s father, a columnist for theCleveland Plain Dealer, was a friend of Jonathan Amy’s parents at Ohio Wesleyan.She had a distinguished career herself. She graduated from Wellesley College, was aprofessional editor, taught English, raised a family and traveled with her husband.

From that first rough draft of the Blanshard brothers, Jane went on to help me with my

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entire book tolerating my ignorance as a first-time author unfamiliar with scholarlywriting formats and getting through the confusing publishing process. Rufus was thrilled that his father’s life in Bay View was being recognized.

Through our “old time correspondence” updated to today’s “digital style,” I learned about their trip to Cuba long before President Obama opened diplomatic relations with theisland and the extra travel requirements it took – going to Canada and flying fromToronto. I was intrigued that a couple in their late 70s would attempt such an adventure.

I learned how she would always attend conferences with NPR-famed gamer Will Shortz where brilliant people solve puzzles competitively. I went through the upheaval of the sale of their Victorian home and adjustment to life in an assisted living facility. At first life was good but then Rufus took sick and eventually passed away. Jane handled it with her usual dignity. A year or so later she had a car accident and had to give up driving.She told me that nothing could be as bad as losing Rufus. She handled that alsogracefully with no complaints.

I sent her Bay View presents and though they were simple she loved every one of them. When I sent a copy of the published book she wrote that she was proud to have had a hand in the project and wished that Rufus could have seen it. When the book was put into two Harvard libraries and the Yale University library, she wrote congratulating me. When I published an article on Hemingway’s connection to Bay View, she was quick online to register a public comment about the essay.

Though now in her 90s she has transferred her editing skills to digital formats. A few months ago I sent her an article about Bay View violinist Hugo Gottesmann. She was intrigued with this man’s life. Then I didn’t hear from her for a while and I was beginning to worry. She explained later that she had had a stroke and was in the hospital. When she got home, she immediately set about with her comments and recommendations about the article and sent it to me via a digital formatting tool. How many people learn thatprogram in their 90s? She even included corrections on the bibliography and madesuggestions on places on the East Coast that would be interested in publishing the story.

Jane is my wonderful Bay View friend whom I deeply admire even though I have never talked her directly, spoken with her on the telephone or even Skyped with her. I havenever seen her or visited her in Connecticut. It is a friendship that has transcended the new age of electronic wizardry to miraculously bring together two people who would

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SELECTED WRITINGS AND ARTWORK

By William (Bill) Ostler

A NEWBORN BABY’S IN THEIR HOUSE

A newborn baby’s in their house and brings with him a frame of mind to own the place and run the house.

The newborn’s parents take their bows when family members come to visit but soon find baby owns this house.

New equipment fills their spaceas family members arrive with gifts to find this newborn owns this place.

Baby cries a lot, kicking Mom’s blouse to let Mom know it’s time to feed.This newborn baby owns this house.

The Grandparents come to make new ties, but seeing them there, he shut his eyes as if to say, “Who are these guys?”

Baby soon felt their love, at home in their arms.But the stay was too short, and soon it’s time to leave back to their home in Michigan.

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never have known each other in earlier days.

Mary Jane Doerr has been a freelance writer for the Petoskey News-Review since 1979 covering various topics of history, culture, and theater events. Her book Bay View, An American Idea won the 2010 State History Award. She is a frequent contributor to The Bay View Literary Magazine.

GOOD HEALTH

I asked my dad, “Why don’t you ever get sick?” He said to me, “I cannot afford to be ill.”

His way of saying, as it seems, he saw no value in becoming ill.

He was a flower growing “farmer”that needed daily presenceproviding an income for himself and his family.

He saw sickness as an election: a decision to be madenot serving him nor his family. I now think sickness must come from our mind having nothing to do with our body at all.

Illness later came to my dadbut only after he retired from his job.

AWAKE

Did you catch yourself thinking of the past?Then you are not in the Now.Did you catch yourself thinking ofWhat you intend to do in the future?Then you are not in the Now!In either case you are not awake!Did you catch yourself judging?Then you are not in the Now.Being “asleep” in thoughts is not being awake!Be in the Now by using your five senses:Sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch!Be in the Now when you eat.You will eat slower, eat less food and enjoy it more!

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Being in the Now is being free of stress.It is a gift from God, which is why we call it The Present!

THE DREAMER

He dreams he is a circus starBetter than all the other performers Seeing himself as very specialMoving from one act to anotherForcing a lion to jump on commandIn the spotlight above the crowdsHe must wake from this illusionTo accept himself as createdHis dreams of specialness must be ended For all of us are of equal importance In the eyes of God!

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“And all that Jazz”

“Music and Dance”

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“Clowning around with Friends”

“Sadness that followed when word came that Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus was closing their doors for good!”

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SELECTED WRITINGS

By Hannah Rees

HOPE BREAKS THROUGH

The headlines rock my tranquility. Day after day they pronounce: more poisoning, pollution, and total disregard for individual rights and differences.

My anger covers a deep sorrow – for people, ideas, things – torn apart, trampled, tossed aside as worthless, destroyed.

And in the fine print, we find – children torn from parents in Mexican immigration facilities, unwarranted force by police, healthcare issues unattended.

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William (Bill) Ostler is a retired public school teacher. His family has had a cottage inBay View since 1968. Bill began watercolor painting and oil painting by taking art classes in Saginaw and Bay View. He enjoys writing poetry as well as playing French horn with the Saginaw Brass Quintet, the Harbor Springs Community Band, and the Midland Community Orchestra, and singing with the Bay View Festival Choir.

And sometimes the news has been completely blocked so that we’ll be kept in the dark and unable to retaliate.

And yet people are joining together in love and resistance. Groups are popping up like mushrooms after a spring rain. Painfully hoping to try to stitch the unraveling fabric of our country – making the weak places strong and each individual, precious.

GREEN

A blending of blue and yellow, pale spring seedling shoots, rich, deep jade, vibrant, verdant vistas

providing contrast for the golden shimmering aspen, enfolding the buds of growing plants, creating chlorophyll and releasing oxygen, smothering the rigid mountains with a velvet softness

has a million different shades like people on our planet all are welcome – all are beautiful!

Hannah M. Rees visited her great-aunt, Alma Reynolds, in Bay View in the 1940s, and has enjoyed many summers here ever since. She married Gerald Rees 60 years ago. Since her retirement from 31 years of teaching grade school and his from the ministry and counseling, they have been having fun traveling and doing various volunteer projects. They have two daughters and five grandsons.

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SELECTED ARTWORK

By Laurie Kavanagh

These three paintings were done upon returning from safari in Tanzania in April. My inspirations were the diverse colors seen in birds, patterns and shapes of animals’ markings as well as the terrain and the vibrant colors worn by the Masai. Mediums are acrylic ink, acrylic paint, marking tools and paper I print.

“On the Serengeti”

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“Wild Africa”

“Maasai”

Laurie Kavanagh is a retired English teacher, and a full-time lover of traveling, making art, playing golf, and enjoying what the wonderful world offers to her. She is a life-time Bay Viewer, a cottage-owner since 2003. She lives in Powder Springs, Georgia.

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SELECTED WRITINGS

By Beverly Brandt

WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST

NOTE: A prompt in my writer’s group inspired this short-short story, which is part memoir and part fiction. The prompt read: “What could be worse than finding yourselfon a sinking ship? What happened the night before was far worse.”

I’ve never felt as small and insignificant as I did when I sailed across the Atlantic on the Queen Elizabeth in the summer of 1967.

I had stood on deck at the stern, watching the ocean liner’s churning wake: white froth in a “V” shape dividing the cold black water. As far as I could see was nothing—black water and white sky separated by an endless horizon.

Yes, we’d completed the obligatory lifeboat drill as we had left New York harbor, sailing past the Statue of Liberty. Tugboats signaled salutes with horn blasts. Fireboats spouted celebratory arcs of water into the air. At the time, the drill seemed like an antiquated parlor game, everyone struggling to locate their life vests in their cabins, racing down long curving corridors, and clattering up flights of steel stairs to the boat deck. The lifeboats resembled compartments on an amusement park ride, white and pristine. I couldn’t imagine ever climbing into one.

But, now? I glanced anxiously in their direction as chaos engulfed the boat deck.

I was fifteen-years-old, standing barefoot on teakwood planks in my flannel, granny nightgown. My stepfather, tying the cord of his plaid bathrobe tighter, tried to look calm. My mother, wrapped in a quilted dressing gown, was wide-eyed.

“I won’t fly,” she had told my stepfather months before our departure. “I won’t fly - - - across the Atlantic - - - at night - - - in an airplane! All that blackness - - - black sky and black water - - -.” She had shuddered at the thought. “We’ll go by boat,” she proposed. “Cunard. An ocean liner is much safer.” Her face brightened at the prospect of her first

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trans-Atlantic voyage.

It was my first voyage, too. And, as far as I was concerned, it had been already been a disaster: Yesterday, I had made a complete fool of myself on the dance floor with a young officer. Tripping on my floor-length gown in my first pair of high heels, I had stumbled from the dance floor back to where my parents sat at our dining table savoring bites of Baked Alaska. Flushed and embarrassed, I had sobbed: “This is the worst night of my life,” burying my head in my hands. When the officer returned to request another dance,I was mortified. “Get me out of here,” I insisted.

“You’ll feel much better in the morning,” my mother had assured me in the warm comfort of our wood-paneled cabin. “A good night’s sleep is just what you need.” She tucked me into my featherbed, beneath the chintz spread.

Only a few hours later, the alarm had sounded, and we had fumbled our way back to the boat deck, incredulous.

“Get in,” a crew member commanded.

I snapped out of my reverie.

Dutifully, I stepped into the lifeboat. But, turning back, I searched the crowd for the face of that young, well-mannered officer.

WE NEVER HAD THIS CONVERSATION

It would be much too dangerous to talk about what I really do for a living. I’ve signed the official secrets act. And, I’ll take that secret to my grave.

There’s a reason why I pursued three, seemingly unrelated degrees at three different universities. There’s a reason why I never married nor had children. There’s a reason why I taught at four land-grant universities, all west of the Hudson. But, you won’t hear it from me.

My training began early at the age of five, when my father died. It continued when my mother married his business partner three years later. What business were they in? They said they were Certified Public Accountants. But, who knows for certain?

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After finishing graduate school in Boston, I took a job in Iowa. “You’re going where?” my colleagues at BU asked, incredulous. No one from that program (it was in New England Studies after all) had ever ventured that far west for work. But, there was a reason. I just smiled back at them mysteriously and didn’t explain.

After I moved to Iowa, my uncle Gene began visiting me on a regular basis. He’d drive up from a border town in Texas. He was my mother’s youngest brother, who had entered World War II at the too-young age of 16. He never divulged what he did during the war, but there were rumors that it was top secret. He spoke numerous languages including Farsi. He’d visit me in Ames, ostensibly to help me with chores around my tiny, fixer-upper of a bungalow. And he was very handy. He could repair anything.

Every evening when I came home from work, he’d have dinner ready. (Where he learned to cook like that, I’ll never know.) I’d change into comfortable clothes and join him at the dining room table. He taught me a lot: how to tie special knots, understand a “secret” family card game, play “Mine Sweeper” on his p.c., and appreciate the finer points of baseball and vintage whiskey.

There’s a reason why I retired early, adopted a very intelligent cat, look younger than the date given on my passport, and travel frequently to exotic places. But, it would be much too dangerous for you if I shared the details. If anyone asks, just remember: “We never had this conversation.”

Beverly Brandt is a professor emerita at Arizona State University. In retirement, she teaches for ASU’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, and regularly shows artwork at galleries in Michigan and Arizona. She has embarked on a series of murder mysteries, starring design historian, Professor Ferradeen Warde, and hopes that the first novel, Crime & Ornament, will be published soon.

AN ORAL HISTORY

By Ruth Dyer

This writing is transcribed from an oral telling of how Ruth and John met. Ruth lovingly and meticulously shared her story just after her husband John died in February 2012.

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Five years later in February of 2017 Ruth passed on to eternity to be with her husband. Before she died she revealed how she would have the most wonderful dreams of when she and her husband were young again. She said the dreams were so real it was as if she got to live it all over again. -Mark Drinkall, grandson

I applied to the University of Arizona and the University of Colorado. After receiving the catalog for the U of A, I didn’t even open the catalog for Colorado. U of A had swimming, diving, field hockey and I could even take horseback riding for gym. The country was beautiful too.

When I arrived they had a mixer for all the freshmen girls. The Jr. guys got to come and check out the new girls and have their first pick. John was a Jr. transfer from Northwestern. He always wore white pants, black shoes and a nice shirt. He had black hair and was a Sigma Chi.

I had pledged Gamma Phi Beta. Our house was across the street from the Sigma Chi house. You had to cut across an empty lot as a shortcut to the classes. He would look out and see me walking by.

Time went on and the house boys from Sigma Chi would come and cook, clean dishes, set tables, then they got to eat. Out of state tuition was $25 a semester. It was free if you were from Arizona.

We would see each other on campus. He didn’t ask me out on a date since I was already going with another boy.

When school got out many were going home. I got an invitation for distinguished performance in athletics and academics. At the end of the school year the yearbook came out. I got a phone call from John Dyer and he asked if I would go out with him. I looked him up in the yearbook and there was this handsome guy I had seen all year. It took him a year to get enough courage to take me out.

He asked to take me to the Baccalaureate in his Model A Ford that cost $25. He took me out and didn’t try to kiss me, which was good because I was slow. If a boy did try to kiss me I cut them out.

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He then asked to take me to Nogales, Mexico across the border. I said no. He asked what I was going to do for the summer and I said go back to Chicago to work and live at home. He said I’m going to Chicago to work and asked for my address. He looked me up and came over and asked for a date. We would go and sit on a blanket in Jackson Park and watch the entertainers that came in. By the end of summer he gave me his Sigma Chi pin.

I finished school. John was working in Chicago for Goodrich tire company. He got a $100 a month salary. I worked at Dennison’s. There was a draft. John had a low draft number. He thought he should volunteer and get a job he wanted to do. Since he had experience building roads he joined the engineering corps. Some of the roads that he helped build are still okay in Hoopston, IL.

So he ended up in California to go officers’ school. He became a 2nd Leut., then a 1st Leut. When he came to Chicago we got married in a hurry. I couldn’t get a wedding dress unless I took one from the window. Pearl Harbor occurred by then.

I was able to get a beautiful wedding dress in the window. Size 4 dress and shoes. We had our wedding. My mother did all the flowers. The army didn’t know where to find him because he gave an address for a women’s home. We had our car with “Just Married” written and drove to Langley Field, Virginia. The trip took a couple days. When we got there the captain met us and said we’re leaving shortly. We thought where can we stay? A family who had a soldier ship out already let us have his room. They offered it free for one night and then we were off. So three days and two nights after being married he was gone for three and a half years.

I wrote to him every day by v-mail. This was a photograph of a letter. He saved all the letters I sent him and would write when he could.

It took a month to cross the ocean via the northern route on the “Constitution.” The ship held so many troops the men had to rotate sleeping. There wasn’t enough bed space or deck space for everyone. After two and a half years in England with Eisenhower they left to cross the British Channel. On D Day +2 he scaled the cliffs and did it with Germans firing at them. Thankfully, he came back without a scratch and without having to kill anyone. Before he left by faith I knew that he would be all right.

I got a job while he was gone. I looked in the newspaper and saw two openings. One was a hostess at Ambassador East Hotel in Chicago and another was for a Chemist at Sherwin

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Williams. I applied for the chemist job in Chicago. The manager of the lab called to take me down and fit me for a jacket, hiring me on the spot. I was the only girl chemist there. We worked every day. Left in the morning before the sun came up. We had a half hour lunch. I’d eat fast, then played ping-pong. We never saw the daylight. It was dark by the time we left. I lived with my folks and only had one day off every year. The Christians would have Easter or Christmas off each year. That was the war effort.

Each time John got a promotion I would put his pin for the ranking on a hat. 2nd Leut., 1st. Leut., Captain - he came home a Captain. Then Major, and finally Leut. Colnel when he retired.

When he came back he had saved up 100 days of leave. Most of the men used up their time overseas, but John didn’t take a day off and saved it for coming home. We took a trailer and took a cross-country trip out West. We had so much fun. It was cozy, we would snuggle in bed with the rain following on the roof. We went across the Badlands, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Yellowstone, West Coast, down through New Mexico, and into Arizona where we visited the campus where we met. Everyone there was so nice to the returning soldiers. They gave us parties and showed their appreciation wherever we went.

A LIFETIME OF MEMORIES

By John Dyer

Some events in the life of John W. Dyer (formerly John Malcolm Decker – but that’s another story)

1. I transferred from Northwestern to U of Arizona 1935-1936 school year. 2. Noticed Ruth on campus, but didn’t meet her until last week of school year.3. 1936 – 1937; 1937-1938; 1938-1939 I was working in Chicago and finished up my degree requirements in night school. We corresponded and I was the summer boyfriend.4. 1940 we became engaged, but the military situation was beginning to look bad. I decided to enlist for a year and get my service obligation over with and then get married.5. I was immediately shipped to a line company in the 19th Engineers at Fort Ord, CA. These were Corps troops supporting the 7th infantry div. under the command

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of Gen. Stillwell.6. Pearl Harbor and other events canceled my one-year enlistment.7. I was selected for the engineer school at Fort Belvoir, VA and at the conclusion of training in July, 1942, I was granted a leave of 15 days before reporting in to the 20th Engineers at Langley Field, VA as a 2nd Lt.8. I wired Ruth that I was coming and we would be married and we would be living near Norfolk, VA, where I didn’t have the slightest idea!9. In less than a week’s time her mother made arrangements for a formal wedding, 300+ guests, reception, wedding dress, everything.10. I came to Chicago, got the required medical certificate on a Sunday (I was greatly put out about that – wasn’t I a brand new Second Lt. in the army and wasn’t the army medical testing good enough!), bought a good used car from the Chicago Motor Club and finally was married almost 60 years ago today at St. Johns Methodist Church on South Jeffery Ave. in Chicago.11. We spent our first night at the Drake Hotel in Chicago and then were off to Virginia to report in on my first assignment as an officer.12. Actually I reported in on the 10th day of my 15 day leave. The adjutant’s first words were, “Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you. You’re transferred.” I figured something like that might happen so I had given my leave address as the All States Hotel in Washington, D.C., a hotel that catered to retired single ladies and where my stepmother was in residence. Actually I was AWOL, but since I was transferred anyway nothing ever came of it.13. I reported in to my new unit, the 816th Engineer Aviation Battalion, which was also based at Langley Field. The minute I reported in I saw POM (preparation for overseas movement) signs everywhere and my heart sank. Everything was supposed to be a big secret, but I soon learned that as soon as the Battalion was up to strength we would move. Actually, we were not up to strength, but we moved anyway in three weeks.14. We were sent to England in the County of Essex about 50 miles NE of London. I was in England 22 months building heavy bomber bases and other military installations.15. Later we took part in the Normandy landing and built the first operational fighter bomber base in the beachhead, which was operational on D +8, 14 June 1944.16. Forty-two months later I returned home to resume my married life, start a business, raise a family and re-adapt myself to civilian living.

John W. Dyer Lt. Col. CE USAR RetiredMay 30, 2001

SELECTED WRITINGS

By Ellery Liddicoat

LOVE CONQUERS ALL

Love heals the worst of wounds, And the saddest of memories.Love is why we choose to walk hand in hand,Instead of march side by side,Love is the blanket of comfort that never leaves your side Are there limits to love?

I believe love is limitless Never blocked by bars of steel Or barbed wiresOr bordersBecause in my mind,Love conquers all.

CLOSE TO HOME

The stars twinkleIn the open skyLike the tinkling laughterOf my brothers that fill my soulWith joy.The comforting,Kind,Loving shineThat the stars bring wherever they go, Are my parents glowing smiles Whenever we brightenTheir day.

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No matter where I go, They will always be there, Looking down on me, Hugging me in the blanket That is the sky.

Ellery Liddicoat is 12 years old and a seventh grade student at Blake School in Minneapolis. She loves writing stories and poems. Her summers in Bay View are very special to her.

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SELECTED WRITINGS

By Jean Liberty Pickett

SUNSET BURNING LIGHT

Sunset sunset burning bright, Sunset burning into the night Like a fire’s flickering light, Creating Nature’s glowing sight.

THE HEALING POWER OF SUNSET’S GLOW

There’s a deep sadness in my soul; I do not know where to go; Can not eat, can not sleep.Then I saw the sunset’s glowGleaming upon the snow. Now I know, really know Just where to go; Not wishing to die or only to cry In this body pain, But having hope again.

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AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN

Forgetting the area of the day, I go out to the garden and pray, Giving my thanks to thee For all the beauty I see. A big black squirrel is seen Scampering on the grass still green. A nut in its mouth I see; Both contented as can be. Bamboo’s sparkling dainty lights Brighten snowball’s fading whites. Hydrangeas pinks still glow Among withering browns below. Yellow clover fill the space Once held by flowers’ blooms of lace Isn’t sunny summer again, But a few wild roses yet remain. In not so very long there’ll be The last rose of summer to see. Twinges of fall fill the air, Scattering of leaves everywhere.

AFTER JACK AND JILL

Husband and wife went shoppingOnce in downtown Petoskey.She fell on a big black dog,And sorely hurt her right knee. Out came the store man to seeAnd help pull her to safety.

Then in a town far awayShe had a request for himTo fetch a water bottle; But that was a sore mistake.On rain-slick steps the husband fellThat dark night, and all’s not well.

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Jean Liberty Pickett has written poems since childhood. More recent ones have been published in The Bay View Literary Magazine and the Petoskey News-Review, and in her book Mostly Poems. A former cottage owner for 25 years, now she lives in Petoskey and is an active Bay View Associate Member.

SELECTED WRITINGS

By Gerald Faulkner

MY LIFE IN A BOX

When spring arrived this year, I finally got around to cleaning out my desk which I had been promising my wife I would do ever since we moved to our active-adult community home several years earlier. As you might have guessed, most of the items in the drawers ended up in the recycling container. However, one item I found in the back of the lower left-hand drawer would go on to be a surprise and in a way, a personal treasure chest of memories of my life.

I’m speaking of a long narrow box containing business-size cards. In the front of the box were various cards from professionals I had known throughout my career in business as well as some containing the names of various companies I had worked for and theprofessional titles I had held. However, there were many more cards that I had collected over the years. In effect, these cards would prove to be a kind of story of my adult life.

The next group of cards I pulled from the box was from the photographer and florist whose services we used for our wedding. This would later lead to my wife and I taking out our wedding album and reminiscing together. My, had we changed. We would use that same photographer several times in the future for portraits of the kids.

Another card was from the realtor who helped us purchase our first home. That purchase would lead us to collect other cards: painters, plumbers, electricians, and mechanics who helped us keep warm in the winter and cool in the summer in each of the several homes and cars we would go on to own.

Then, there was a group of cards from those who helped my family stay healthy andlooking well by mending our bodies, straightening our teeth, cutting our hair, massaging

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our muscles and perhaps easing our minds. And, not to be forgotten, were the cards of the clergy who enlightened me about God’s path for my life on earth as well as mycelestial future.

Lastly, I found some cards which I collected that reflected our future needs during our twilight years: estate planners, assisted living facilities and, yes, even funeral homes. I didn’t like thinking about that too much so I returned the box to the desk drawer where I found it. I smiled and thought: Jimmy Stewart’s character, George Bailey, was right, it is a wonderful life!

THE AUTOMAT REMEMBERED

While browsing through a magazine, I came upon an article about McDonald’s. Itexplained how it had grown from a one store business in Des Plaines, IL (today it’s a museum) into a gigantic, multi-billion-dollar international business. However, the most surprising part of the article was their plan to explore replacing people with robots and automation for their food service. This brought to mind another company that was a giant in its time. Perhaps you’ve heard of it yourself. This company was located in all the major cities in the Northeast and some in the Midwest. Its name was the Horn and Hardart Automat Company. It was established in 1902 and gave its customers high tech (for its time), inexpensive but good eating in a scrupulously clean environment. And, they did it without any waiters.

My first knowledge of the Horn and Hardart Automat came at Christmas time in New York City. It was something of a tradition with my mom to take us to many of the large retail stores to buy new Christmas clothes. My stay-at-home mom would take us to Horn and Hardart after shopping. Entering into Horn and Hardart with my older brother and younger sisters could only be described as “wow”. It was sort of a Disneyland before there was a Disneyland. While it did not offer rides, it did offer excitement for young boys and girls from the moment you entered the highly-polished revolving brass doors, which in a way turned out to be a kind of ride in itself and a great deal of fun. Mom would walk over to the cashier and hand over what was probably a few bucks and would then receive a gigantic pile of nickels. It was better than any payout from a Las Vegas slot machine.

The place was like a Magic Kingdom of chrome handled glass boxes. An enormous wall of endless treats. Mom would hand each of us a fistful of nickels. “Choose well,” she would say. There was food which I would call adult food: sandwiches, salad, hot food,

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but who wants to be an adult, not me. I headed for the pie section: lemon meringue (from California, Mom said). On the other hand, there were cakes and puddings, rice and tapioca, my favorite, and all kinds of cookies. Santa would have himself some great choices here!

Eventually, the nickels ran out and we would have to leave this chrome and glassemporium and return home, but not before Mom had her second cup of coffee and settled us down for the long walk home. Sadly, the last Horn and Hardart Automat closed in 1991. However, today I am celebrating the memory of the Horn and Hardart Automat by having a second cup of coffee and an extra-large piece of lemon meringue pie. Mmm!

Gerald Faulkner graduated college 55+ years ago. His professional life was spent inHuman Resources and his second career was spent in the local school system. Early retirement came thirteen ago followed by three years of part-time work as a tutor in math. His hobbies are history, politics and, of course, writing. For the past three years, he has been teaching at Senior University at a local college. He has been vacationing in the Bay View community for the last 18 years and has been an Associate Member for over ten years. Over the years, his love of the Bay View community has grown and he looksforward to being there each year.

CLOSING THE COTTAGE

By Boo Kiesler

The flags, wind-frayed and faded, need to be folded and tucked into their boxes.The flowers, prideful in July, must be plucked from their window boxes, their stems now sucked out and sad.

These walls once hid a wild, mutton-sleeved young girlwho rode in a horse and carriage,who dared to play cards, who smoked a cigarette with the shades drawn,right in this very room.

Last month the same room boasted of cell phones and Blackberries,

owned by thirty-something children whose sunburned noses once sniffed the air at din-nertime, hoping for hamburgers.

I need to go to the beach, where weeks ago I threw rocks into the waves with the littlest,a favorite game for a grandmother.I wear a sweatshirt with a hood, because Michigan in September can be cold.

I leave the cottage for a while, my last glance at the lonely leash,the lab now back home in Texas.Once a champion of Frisbees, he now prefers to watch and sleep.The porch looks empty without his gray muzzle dozing away the day.

I’ll sweep tomorrow, the leaves red and golden already, piling up into the flower beds.I’ll wash the sheets and cover the lamps and cry a little.

The summer place readies itself for winter;I only help it along by gathering boxes and closing windows.

And which of the little girls, busy now with braids and baby dolls, will follow me in this closing of the season?Who will gather and grieveand remember the daily buttering of bread,the sand spiraling down the shower drains off of sun-soaked, brown little bodies?Who will watch the bee balm peek from the floor of the flower bed,or sniff the licorice plants from the old lady’s garden her granny befriended?

Oh, God, I thank you for the privilege of closing the cottage.For the perspective of time gone but treasured. And I thank you for the mutton-sleeved girl, my great-grandmother,who may have wondered who in her long line of womenwould celebrate an ending.

Boo Kiesler was born in Flint, Michigan to Jane and Bill Curry, and she spent most of her childhood in Cincinnati, Ohio. She moved to Texas and graduated from Southern Methodist University, majoring in English and German. She currently volunteersteaching adult international students in Austin, and enjoys summers in Bay View withher husband, Chris, her two sons, her daughter-in-law and four grandchildren.

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A HIGH BAR INDEED (A COMMUNION HOMILY)

By Doug Bowden

“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Jesus’farewell words to his disciples, shortly before he is crucified, in the Gospel of John. His words have meant everything to me, since I was young, growing up in the 1950’s and 1960’s. I remember one of my first prayers that I wrote for a youth service of worship in the First Methodist Church, Highland Park, Michigan, in which I included these words of Jesus. As I was learning, I began to understand that Jesus’ sacrificial love on the cross, is the heart of his farewell discourses in the Gospel of John, Chapters 13 to 17. Jesusmaking clear to his disciples, as he washed their feet, teaching them that his sacrificial love for them was the model for the love they were to give other. So, these words ofJesus, for us to ponder deeply this Sunday morning.

I connected, in those formative years, Jesus’ words with individuals who had literally laid down their lives for their friends. Indeed, I think this is why the Civil Rights Movement so deeply affected me and transformed my life. When Medger Evers, one of the leaders of the Civil Rights Movement was killed in Mississippi, in June, 1963 in the driveway of his home, near his family, Jesus’ words came to mind.

Indeed, in our full lives, each of us now remembers persons, maybe family, maybe friends, maybe strangers, or maybe persons known or unknown, who have so followed and trusted these words of Jesus. They have laid down their lives for either their friends or for their country. They have said yes, perhaps consciously or unconsciously, to this agape love in Jesus, that he would freely choose to give or sacrifice his life for our sins and for our salvation on the cross. “What wondrous love is this, O my Soul,” as we sing in the hymn. Such love, as Jesus gave to us, he calls us to give to each other, in this way.

In late May of this year, a commuter train is running in Portland, Oregon. On the train are two young women. One is an American girl, 16 years old. The second girl is her Muslim friend, wearing a hijab. A white man, seeing the girls, begins to shout anti-Muslim insults at them. Rick Best, a 53 year old veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, stepped forward to protect the girls. Taliesin Namkai-Meche, a 23 year old graduate of Reed College, also stepped forward to protect the girls. Micah Fletcher, a 21 year old poet and student from

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Portland State, was the third man to stand with the two to protect the girls.

This man, insulting the two young girls, pulls a knife and stabs the three men. Rick Best dies there from his stab wounds. Taliesin Namkai-Meche lays critically wounded. Still conscious, he says, “I want everybody on the train to know, I love them.” Arriving at the hospital, he dies there. The third man, Micah Fletcher, is less seriously wounded. Poet he is, his first thoughts, as he awakens from surgery, is to write a poem, which reads, in part. “I am alive. I spat in the eye of hate and lived. This is what we must do for one another. We must live for one another.” Thankfully, he has healed from his stab wounds in the neck.

Rick Best, in his life, was the father of four teenage children. As Nicholas Kristof writes, “He fell on the battleground of American values. He deserves the chance to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery.” This is what it means to be a disciple of Jesus at Bay View in the summer of 2017. We are to love each other, as Jesus as loved us. This is a high bar indeed! Hearing the voice of Jesus to all who choose to be his disciples, we come now to the table for God’s gifts of bread and cup. Love and mercy, in the presence of Jesus are here. A deeper peace, which gives us light and hope, as we recommit ourselves to love each other and all of God’s people, we meet, even in the same loving and sacrificial ways of Jesus.

Thanks be to God! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen and Amen.

Doug Bowden first came to Bay View with his family, as a young neighbor from nearby Lake Louise, in the 1950’s. God called him to be a United Methodist Pastor, serving in the Northern Illinois Conference, 1969-2012. Mary and Doug purchased their cottage, on Reed Street, right next to Boothdale Park in 1986. Both retired in 2012 and are now thankful to be full time members of Bay View each summer. Thanks be to God!”

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THE BACK PAGE

Please submit your poems, essays, memoirs, short fiction, and artwork to be considered for the 2018 edition. We are always happy to discuss your ideas. Along with yoursubmission, please include a few lines of biographical information. Additional copiesof the magazine are available throughout the year at the Bay View Association office. Submissions for 2018 should be received by June 30, 2018 by mail or email (preferred).

Scott Drinkall ScottDrinkall@hotmail.com