Chapter 1
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intended destination, I continue wandering the back roads, enchanted by abandoned cattle feeders camouflaged in faded, outdated graffiti and captivated by the rustic, dilapidated silos, and decaying barns.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 the weathered 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 documentation to 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 in the 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 weather permits, staying until the leaves begin to change from shades of green to yellow and rust.
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 simply the 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 wrap my 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?
Coming to a stop, I shake my head as unexpected emotions bubble within me.
“You son of a bitch.” I take a deep breath, more ragged than I planned.
“I never wanted to speak to you again, and now I would do anything for one last conversation. If we could, would you tell me? Was your death really an accident? What does that mean—accident?” I look around, confirming no one is listening.
“Or was it something more devious? Did someone finally retaliate? Huh, Craig...Mr. Gilbert?” Tears fill my eyes, but I push them away.
“Now that it’s too late, would you do things differently? ”
I wait for answers, but the only response comes in the form of rustling branches blowing high above in the trees.
I go on, “I left this town because of you. I haven’t returned because of you. And now you’re the reason I’m back.”