Study the way this place changed from forest to farmland and resort area, and pretty soon you will find yourself up to your eyebrows in Civil War veterans. Men and boys—so many boys—who enlisted or were drafted, who lost a limb or languished from disease, who came home broken in some indefinable way. . . women who wrested survival for themselves and their children from hard soil, who died in childbirth, who buried babies—so many babies—who posed iron-faced for their portraits. They came here to get a fresh start, or escape from old mistakes. Let them capture you and you will find yourself enmeshed in a tangled web of family relationships.
It’s like putting a puzzle together, except that you don’t really know what the picture looks like, and the shapes of the pieces shift. I was over at Bayview Cemetery again, taking pictures of tombstones, peering at faint inscriptions, trying to fill in some blanks. Who are these people? I wondered, and why have they gotten such hold of me??? For the first time I noticed this tree.
It was difficult to get a picture that would show you how odd it is. Every branch of it twists and twines about other branches. It is such a tangle that I cannot imagine how it grew so.
Well, this tree isn’t a patch on the tangled patterns of the lives of the people buried here. If you ever lived in a small town, you remember hearing its stories, and you remember that there were always digressions. When Naomi’s first baby was born—Naomi was a Skinner, you know . . . The Blakely women could be pretty grim, but they had reason to be . . . Don’t know why Wendell bought that acreage—no Evans ever made a living farming . . .
Kathy Windiate is becoming as obsessed with old graves as I am. As Township Clerk, she has the task of entering Lakeview Cemetery records in a database. The old deeds and death records are a revelation. Diphtheria, smallpox, a shotgun blast, childbirth . . . wait, wait, a shotgun blast? This peaceful little place is not always what you think it is. Never has been. Isn’t now. Kathy and I may have to start a chapter of Local History Addicts Anonymous.
I am deeply entangled in digressions, lost in details. After the trip to Bayview I wandered about the back roads that still mark off the homesteads of Norman Larabee, John Keffe, William Burns, Daniel Blakely. It’s good to get a little perspective. Look at the sweep of the land, from the high ridges of the drumlins, across Torch Lake, down to the Bay.
Look into the setting sun and you will see nothing but its glare. Turn and look at the land. Everything is there, written in fire and blood.
Babs Young
March 15, 2010
I love this last photo. You are so right that turning away from the sunrise or sunset can reveal some lovely stuff.
Gerry
March 15, 2010
Thank you, Babs. I love it too. I loved even more just looking at it. As I descended Bennett Hill Road verrrry carefully I could see every house and barn and silo on the ridge aflame.
katherine
March 15, 2010
Beautiful photo
Gerry
March 15, 2010
Thank you Katherine.
uphilldowndale
March 16, 2010
Lovely post Gerry. I think that tree has fallen victim to a virus, look at the trunk all was straight and sturdy, up to a point, then all hell breaks loose
Gerry
March 16, 2010
That makes sense–and an even better metaphor. Thank you!
katherine
March 16, 2010
It may be one of those Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick trees but I don’t know.
Gerry
March 16, 2010
It’s a puzzle. With luck I’ll get over there again while it’s in bud. Assuming it buds.
flandrumhill
March 17, 2010
There are those who see the forest and those who see the trees. You’re not chronically distracted. You’re just one of those people who see the trees. Upright or gnarly, each one holds such an interesting history at its centre that it’s downright impossible to not want to learn more about it (and the one next to it too).
Your last paragraph has given me something altogether new to think about.
Gerry
March 17, 2010
Why thank you. I think it’s a fine thing to have something new to think about.