The Pencil

I remember a pencil at my grandparents’ house. I think it was in a square tin of stuff they’d given my sister and me to play with. Probably candy had come in the tin, or cookies. I can’t remember the lettering on it, but it was kind of battered, and aqua blue. Along with a couple of old perfume bottles (cut glass, I remember, and one had indigo paint that had chipped off it) there was this fancy mechanical pencil. A short little thing, gold metal, with a jewel on the top end. I was always intrigued by it. What world did that pencil come from?

We were small, and I don’t think I realized it must have been for card parties, for keeping score. But my instincts were right on—it had come from a different world. One in which playing cards was a major social occupation, something everyone did. When you had people over, what did you do after dinner? Play cards. When you joined a ladies’ club, what (besides a sewing circle) would you do? Play cards. And you would not set that table with plastic Solo cups (even if they had existed) or with ordinary pencils.

Funny to think of that silly pencil as an object from another planet.

I can’t remember, besides the pencil and the perfume bottles, what was in the box. I think our crayons stayed in their own carton, in the bottom drawer of Grandma’s desk. I say “Grandma’s” desk, because she was the one who sat at it, to write letters and pay bills. I can’t imagine anyone does that anymore, sits at a drop-front desk and writes. When her arthritis got so bad she couldn’t pen letters anymore, she sat there with an Underwood typewriter (the long keys with the letters on their tips always made me think of the legs of a friendly spider) and pecked out her correspondence. I think she wrote letters every week.

The thing is, I don’t really miss the damn pencil. And I never could type on a manual typewriter. I miss the people I’ve lost. And I want some of that innocence back—the quality that allowed me to hold a rhinestone-topped pencil in my hand and think it was special. What I mourn is not only the people who have gone, but my own capacity for wonder, for adventure, and my resilience. When you’re a kid, tomorrow really is a new day.

Could that still be true?

Make it so, Captain Picard says.

My grandparents didn’t even know what Star Trek was. They certainly didn’t move at anything like warp speed.

But they got through stuff I can’t even imagine.

Friends around a table. Aces over kings. We’ll make it through, somehow.


The Making of the Bed

An old woman and a little girl stand in a room lit by two windows—
A bedroom, it is,
With a closet,
A bed,
A vanity with a big round mirror and a green-cushioned bench,
A brush and comb lying neatly on a doily.

On the nightstand, there is a clock that plays “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”

The old woman is making the bed.
The little girl is helping her.
They smooth the top sheet over the bottom, the woman bending
(at the waist—her back stays straight as an arrow),
The girl reaching on tiptoe.
The woman’s knobby fingers, crooked with arthritis,
Brush the cotton into serenity
While the little girl tries to follow.

At the foot of the bed
The woman lifts the mattress
And sweeps the end of the sheet under.
At the corner she says, “Here, let me show you how to do this.”

The little girl rushes over,
Stands at rapt attention.

“Pull this up”—the old woman catches the sheet in her stiff fingers—“and tuck this in”—she sweeps the lower edge under with her other hand—“then fold this over”—she drops the upper flap and tucks it under too.
Now there is a neat, tight corner
As crisp as the folds on a cardboard gift box.

“Let me, let me!”
The little girl hops from foot to foot.
Her glasses bounce on her nose.
How badly she wants to be able to do things!

Her grandmother plucks the sheet back out and they go through the steps again,
(For there is time enough)
Old fingers shadowing young.

When she’s done
The girl looks up
Through smudged lenses,
Fixes hungrily on her grandmother’s face.
Her world hangs, for a moment, on the old woman’s expression.

The grandmother feels
The force of that look
Feels it like fire,
Is pierced by it
Goodness, it could take her breath away
But she is steady.
She smiles. Rests her palm lightly
On the girl’s fine, wheat-colored hair.

“Very good,” she says, but
The words don’t matter much.
The girl has already found what she was waiting (on tenterhooks) for,
In her grandmother’s face.

Together they lift the white chenille bedspread
And cover their handiwork.

How fraught with peril it is
To be alive.
How sharp a pain is love, sometimes.

How lucky they are.

Nancy Squires July 2017

Photographic Memory

I took photos on Earth Day. It was sunny in the morning; I turned my face up to the warmth and squinted my eyes half-shut as I walked the length of the parking lot, headed to the sled hill.

There the grass was already thick green plush, shaggy. The wind was blowing cool at the top through leafless trees. Someone was walking their dog along a trail. I left them behind as I descended.

At the foot of the hill I headed over to the swampiness at the edge of the clearing, blooming fervently with the bright yellow of marsh marigolds and the fresh green of skunk cabbage, leaves recently unfurled. Reflections floated in shards of standing water, old vines and branching thickets trailed across my view. I tried to maneuver around the deepest mud, setting up my composition: yellow flowers, green foliage, shining water. And a big black tire, dumped there in the swamp.

Up and down, crouched, on my knees, pushing though the thorny branches—I took a dozen shots. Then I turned to look for the bones Sally found last week: a length of vertebrae, lying in the grass, some ribs arching up; a couple of longer pieces, nearly hidden in the watery tussocks. Probably a deer.

It was a tricky subject, this small collection of bones, lying in a field, the line of trees off in the distance, standing guard. I tried this and that—different angles, a close-up, framed with blades of grass, then pulling back so the animal’s bones were just a small, chalky jumble at the edge of a big, green world.

It got warm down there in the sun, out of the wind. Warm, and beautifully quiet. No traffic, no one yelling for their dogs to heel, early on a Saturday. I took off my hat and stuffed it in my pocket, turned off my camera, capped the lens and began the climb up the hill. I was smiling as I went, thinking of my dad. This was exactly the kind of thing he used to do, and now, I realize, what he taught me to do.

I can remember standing with him, just the two of us, in the dimness of the woods off the trail behind the cottage as he showed me how to use the light meter on his old Leica. Take it off the mount and hold it in front of the lens, he advised, you’ll get a better reading. I have his Leica now. He told me to take it one day, a couple of years before he died, and I remember I couldn’t, just then. The idea made me too sad even though I knew he couldn’t use it anymore. I had discovered some time before that he no longer remembered how it worked, the man who used to open up his cameras to explain their operation to me, the mirrors in an SLR, and how things moved when you clicked the shutter.

Go outdoors, he taught me, by example—to the woods or the swamp; quiet yourself, look around. Take pictures.

My dad’s been gone nearly ten years. Strange, as time passes, how often I suddenly realize I am doing or saying the same things he, or my mom, or my grandparents did. Then it seems to me I can almost feel my ancestors come forward out of the past. I like to believe that they never really leave me, entirely. My dad showed me how to set an f stop, and taught me to hold steady as I squeezed the shutter, but so much more. He walks with me again as I edge the swamp, kneel and raise my camera to my eyes. Peering closer, looking deep.


I was captured by the Ninth Symphony.

It happened last Thursday night, sitting in the dark of a concert hall. This kind of thing has happened to me before, like the time I saw the film Down from the Mountain and afterward had the feeling I should devote the rest of my life to the preservation of bluegrass. Or the time I woke up to Gerald Finzi’s “Eclogue” on my clock radio. I’d never heard it before, and it seemed like a gift out of nowhere. I can still remember lying in bed in my tiny room in Boston with the yellow-painted walls and the announcer saying, “Every time I hear that piece it makes me want to be a better person.”

Often when I have this kind of experience I think about the piece of music for days. I read about it, try to learn something about the composer, the performers, the history surrounding it—whether early 20th century Appalachia, or 18th century Leipzig. I’ve learned some interesting facts in the course of my obsessions—for instance, that Gerald Finzi and I have the same birthday (although he died in the decade before I was born). That when Johnny Cash’s voice changed and his singing took on the low, resonant tones we know so well, the sound of it moved his mother to tears.

Ultimately, though, I’ve come to realize that none of that information explains why I respond so intensely to a piece of music.

This time the experience was so dramatic that I’ve really had no choice but to think about it. I recognize that one factor is the power of live performance—always more captivating and immediate than listening to a recording (as wonderful as it is, to have recordings to listen to).

And it must be relevant that this time the piece was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—a monumental work, loaded with drama, huge contrasts, big forces (including a choir of more than a hundred voices).

I’ve always loved certain moments in the Ninth—the very beginning, which has such a sense of expansiveness that I picture planets floating in the dark of space, a kind of sublime feeling of contemplating the universe. The opening of the fugue in the second movement—doesn’t everyone love that? It’s so famous that I would guess that pretty much the entire Western world has heard it. The contrast of the slow, tender melody that opens the third movement, and my favorite moment of all: in the fourth movement, when after we’ve heard—twice—a tiny fragment of the “Ode to Joy” theme returning, riding on a pulse in the horns (that pulse always makes me hold my breath), the strings rise and swell like an uplifting of wings and the chorus rushes back in to sing the theme one last time. At Orchestra Hall the other night, the effect was a tsunami of sound.

But my feeble descriptions still can’t explain, fully, what happened to me there. That music, in that hour, cracked me open like an egg.

When it was over and we were all on our feet, clapping and calling out to the roughly two hundred people taking their bows, I was acutely aware that I could have sat down and cried. Sad? No. I wasn’t sad, at all. And as the soloists and the conductor came on and off stage some five times and we kept clapping, I knew the moment was about to arrive when we would leave—but I didn’t want to. I felt bonded to those people, who had done this for me. Reached into my soul and opened it up like—I’m not sure what, but I know as we left I felt dazed, as if after a long time in a dark cave I stood blinking in the sun.

Something has changed, I thought, looking around at the lobby as we left, the people flowing down the stairs and out the doors to the street. Something has changed, I thought, walking into the parking deck which no longer seemed such an ordinary parking deck. It took a while before I realized: What had changed was me.

Of all the arts (and I love them all), music has the greatest power to go straight to our hearts and souls, grab us and shake us in ways that we can barely comprehend. Am I a better person for having attended that concert last Thursday night? I won’t make that claim. But I do see this: My sense of the world, both inside and outside of myself, has grown somehow. And that can only be a good thing.


Up and Down

“Downstate,” my neighbor and I say, standing in her vestibule. I’ve politely declined her offer to come in and sit, too much to do. I won’t stay, I tell her. So I stand in my ragged jeans and muddy work shoes, she in her bathrobe. It’s close to noon—but she’s in her 80s and lives alone. Why shouldn’t she be in her pajamas? I think if I were her, I likely would be too.

Downstate. We talk about it almost like it’s another country. It feels that way sometimes, once you’re here, for a while, the wind blowing, combing the shore; water and sand and trees surrounding you even along the highway. “More sticks than you can shake a stick at,” I quipped as we made circles around the cottage, picking up all the branches that came down over the winter. I had a big pile beside the path down to the beach, and we still hadn’t gathered them all.

An entire tree had come down, too; it fell along our property line, lying across the stream that runs there now, in spring. My neighbor mentions this first—she’s been looking at it, of course, from her window and as she walks out to her garage. I tell her I saw it, and Sally and I will cut it up. When things dry out, she says. Then we move on to other topics.

The winter was hard she says, because the weather—temperatures up and down, up and down—really got to her. “You’d think a nice warm day would feel good,” she says. But not when you know it’s not time yet, and the cold sets in again. “I think, winter is winter,” she says. I’m reminded that the seasons happen within us as well as without. “Although I did think, I don’t have to shovel.” She laughs wryly. She looks older than last year. Any kind of winter is long, I guess. But especially one that you can’t recognize.

We hug before I go; I tell her we’ll be back soon and get together for a glass of wine or something. She may be downstate, she says, May is busy. Downstate—that funny word again. Ok, I say. We’ll catch up some time.

After lunch Sally and I investigate the tree. I pick my way over to its stump, on a tiny island in the brook. The furrowed bark shows telltale D-shaped holes, and pulls right off to reveal the looping trails of insects underneath. Emerald ash borer. Just what I expected.

Later when a small plane revs overhead—for already the third time or so, this trip—I wonder about the difference, between downstate, and up north. Does it still exist? It must—there’s the Bay, glimmering in the late afternoon sun, I can see it even from behind the house, through bare spring trees. There’s not much like this, downstate.

And yet…

I am much like my neighbor, who had a hard time recognizing winter this year. I struggle sometimes to recognize this place I’ve known for nearly sixty years. Underneath the noise, despite the traffic: cars, the Fed-Ex truck, private planes. Beach-walkers, back and forth, jet skis, zooming in and out. I have to rearrange pieces of the puzzle—move this over, push that into the background—before I can say, ah, there it is, there’s the familiar picture, the one I know.

Human beings—we can adapt to change, but should we? Should we accept winter that is not winter? Should I embrace this place as it is now—shrinking, in a way? Sometimes I see it as the scene at the wrong end of a telescope: diminished, distant.

I know, though, that my perception can change, in a moment. Like Sunday morning before we left to go back “downstate.” I sat right next to the window at the end of the table, sipping coffee, looking out.  Nothing between me and the outdoors but that single sheet of glass, from which I’d taken the winter shutters a day and a half before.  All was quiet: the green bank of moss (our front “lawn”), the cedar trees, the edge of the forest. Beyond, the beach was empty; the water still, under a gray sky. Overcast but peaceful, at 7 a.m.

I felt as I often do, inside the cottage at the front windows: that I was part of what I was seeing. That all I had to do was reach, a little, and I’d be in that landscape, so close was I, so real was it. And then I saw something moving in the water close to shore, a dark head, too big and too low to be a loon or a merganser. I picked up the binoculars (we often leave them on the table) and looked. A brown, sleek head just above the surface, a long body following. I knew at once: a river otter, swimming up the Bay.

I’d never seen one before, although I remember my parents reporting sightings several years in a row. Come look, I told Sally, and she peered through the binoculars as the otter swam out of sight.

The water rises, river otters appear. Things change, sometimes for ill but now and then, for better. I stood as the otter swam out of view and hoped to see it again.

I stood at the window, and hoped.



It’s spring, and nearly time to go to the cottage. My thoughts have been turning there; we’ll be going soon. I am eager. And also apprehensive.

Last night I dreamed that I walked along the beach to find not only a long row of houses but shops, right at the water’s edge. Someone was selling pizza from an open doorway while the waves washed up just inches away.

I love pizza, I told someone, but

Later in the dream I rose in the middle of the night to look out the front window and saw coming up the Bay a line of boats, in the moonlight. They had sails up, but I could hear the throttle of their engines and see their wakes, churning furiously as they sped north. There was one person, a single figure, on each of them. Some kind of midnight race…

The dream ended with being lost in a maze of tunnels under the nearby town. Eventually I and my companions found our way out, but when we surfaced we were behind a fence. I saw in the distance an artificial waterfall, a dam, not unlike the one that actually exists at the old hydroelectric plant in town. Beyond it, an array of smokestacks (something which doesn’t exist in the real town), belched smoke into the sky. We were in a strange twilight, a dimness, but it was too early for real night. I thought we could get out if we just hopped the fence—but it looked like we would be plowing through someone’s garden. That was not going to dissuade me. I was desperate.

Soon after, I woke up. And thought: We are the most invasive species.

We hear a lot about invasive species in the Great Lakes region. First zebra then quagga mussels (imports from the Dnieper River and the Black and Caspian Seas) became legendary, for the speed and numbers at which they multiplied and for the critical changes they’ve wrought in the Great Lakes ecosystem. The emerald ash borer has been killing trees in Michigan and spreading out from here for a decade; there are a few dead ash trees on my property up north and we pass whole groves of them on the highway nearby. Asian carp swim in the canals at Chicago and their DNA has been found a mere city block from Lake Michigan. Most Great Lakes residents shudder to think about them. What if they get in? So far, no one’s had the stomach to appropriate the money it will take to effectively keep them out.

We do spend money, every year in Michigan, to neutralize sea lamprey, which overwhelmed the upper Great Lakes back in the 50s, coming in through the Welland Canal. As a result, we and the fish they prey on are relatively untroubled by these parasitic, eel-like creatures. But those measures only came to pass after the lamprey decimated native trout populations, and we replaced them with non-native salmon (a population that is currently plummeting, making some biologists hopeful for the resurgence of native lake trout.)

Everywhere you look, it seems, there is some creature that has come in and upset the ecological balance. And no one more than us.

We brought every one of those invaders into our environment. But even without importing bugs and eels and carp so aggressive they jump out of the water, we do plenty of damage of our own.

My dream last night was about the suburbanization of my neighborhood up north. There’s no pizza hut near me—yet—but I’m confounded by the ever-growing number of gas ‘n go plazas in the little town down the highway. And every year on our road more houses, and bigger, go up. Last year we watched as a massive log house that looked almost big enough to be a hotel was built—on the woods side of the road, without water frontage. My parents used to think no one would build on that side. Too much swamp, and no beach. And then the first house went up…

I haven’t seen any midnight boat races, either; but there’s a daylight event that started a few years ago, a charity race called “Thunder on the Bay.” It involves high-powered motorboats racing at top speed to various points around Grand Traverse Bay. The first time I experienced it, I was on a stepstool, cleaning out the kitchen cupboards. My back to the window, I heard a roar and all the glasses rattled on the shelf. What the hell is that? I wondered. It went on for a good forty-five minutes or so, as I recall.

All of it makes me a little crazy. When I get down to the root of it, I’m afraid. Sometimes I think maybe I just need to chill—calm down some. Yes, the world has changed since I was a kid—especially in my small corner of northern Michigan.

But then again, this is not really the time to chill.

We have a president who wants to eliminate, completely, funding to protect the Great Lakes. We have an administration that appears to be gutting the EPA, the agency charged with protecting everyone’s water, and air, and soil. We have people in power now more than ever who put profits first, and who will not acknowledge that we are changing the very climate of planet Earth by human activity.

I love the northern Great Lakes, and Michigan, my home. I know that there are people all across the country, and all around the world, that have a similar deep affinity for the places they have come up in. And as I dream troubled dreams, of strip malls and smokestacks on the Bay so dear to me, I can only cling to this: Love is an anxious business. But there is no greater force in the universe. Love can do a lot.