It was not the sort of night one would normally choose for a walk. Not that Bob had chosen per se. Bob typically lived a very Bob life. He had none of the flourishes or airs of a Robert and certainly not the carefree existence of a Bobby. Bob was as simple and succinct and matter of fact as his name implied. But this was not a Bob act. Bob was living outside of his name this evening.

He was completely lost even as he was walking through the familiar fields he had wandered his whole life. To be clear, Bob didn't even realize he was walking anywhere let alone somewhere. He was so deep in the dark folds of his own despair that he was not even aware that he had left the shop without a coat or hat or gloves…as he ventured out into what was being described as a 100 year snow storm by those that describe such things. He hadn't noticed that the 4 feet of weightless snow was now up to his chest as he waded down through the cedars and into Elzinak's pasture. The white fluff swirled around him as he moved effortlessly through it...effortless save for the labor of lifting his feet up and out of the deep ice crust far below. Boots luckily were among the scant items Bob had on his person. But the sunken depressions in the crunchy sub surface were no match for the even deeper depression hollowed into his very soul. Bob was absolutely gutted. Drifting like the snow.

It had all started several days ago.

After a customary morning cup of Folgers instant he was suddenly tripped up and fell headlong into a bottomless pit of anguish. Upon reflection, that coffee, that day, was indeed the best part of waking up. His reflection in the mirror in the middle of his taxidermy shop shattered the calm morning. Staring at himself flanked by his stuffed trophies of fish and fowl and fox and beaver and bear and hare…there….there…was hollow Bob. A man devoid of purpose. Strange feelings for someone who had worked everyday for 30 years without fail. He was lauded by those that laud. The headlines read: "Teen taxidermist takes Turkey to Top Tier!" "Young Michigan Taxidermist has all the Right Stuff!" "Small Town Artist hits the Big Time in NewYork Museums!" "Animatronic Otter Oozes Charm in Disney Movie!

Bob had done it all and more. Reached the pinnacle repeatedly.

But now he was paused, stuck and wondering. Is that it? What was it all for? And what now? When the spotlight shone his way, Bob ducked. Interview requests? He demurred. His work, his life, had never been about accolades. He was a lone craftsman and artist…turning the first moments of an animal afterlife into a perpetual tribute to the majesty of nature. But now Bob himself was frozen in the mirror. He was filled with a profound sense of ennui. And he didn’t go for any of that foreign stuff.

What Now? he repeated out loud. Out in the snow. Out of answers.

He was Bobbing and weaving to nowhere…marching, without a drummer or a plan.

Finally he broke down and looked up raising his arms to the heavens and pleaded…

Give me a sign! Please please! Just give me a sign!

The snow was pelting him in the face…stinging his eyes which were wide open like his mouth…

Bewildered by the vision in the sky

Hurtling, twisting and spinning a dark form was heading down towards him whooshing thru the airborne snow and landing heavily at his feet in a cloud of white.

The quick gasp of air that Bob sucked in, a cold rush of oxygen to the brain snapped him out of his stupor. He slowly leaned over and down trying to make sense of what had just dropped from the sky at his feet.

He blinked. Looking.

A falling star? A fallen Angel?

A midget!*

*In Bob’s defense he was not up on the latest language of the day and didn’t know to describe the lifeless man before him as a “little person.”

And he couldn’t have known what had just happened several hundred yards away on the county road.

Another spiritual epiphany of sorts.

The little person (LP) had just head-longed a stolen snowmobile high speed into a power pole after burying his rental car (oddly a full sized, not compact) into a snowbank and trudging to a nearby sports bar where aforementioned snowmobile was liberated. Upon colliding with power pole LP rebounded and rolled into the middle of the road. Dazed and wobbly LP was suddenly illuminated by a great heavenly light from above. He slowly reached his hand up towards the light surrendering to the approach of the hereafter which was actually the county snowplow barreling down on him. There was an amazing lightness to the scoop and soar that the angled snow blade affected on his little person….becoming one with the snow swirling weightless in the sky.

Patsy Kline was filling Bob’s head and soul…

“I go out walkin' after midnight
Out in the moonlight..."

Bob was holding a leg…dragging LP thru the snow back to the taxidermy shop

The snow melting as it hit his warm face…mixing with tears of joy…

Bob smiled a restrained Bob smile as he and LP and Patsy made their way home shaking his head at the midnight miracle.

What now? He said to himself chuckling. What now indeed…..!

The Evening Loon was originally published in the early 1900's, crafted and edited below decks in the aft most cabin of a legendary ship (nay barge) that sailed about Lake Charlevoix. The Keuka (Indian for Keuka) was not storied due to its beauty for it had none or it's sleek lines as those it did not possess. The fame in reference was because of the goods and services it offered. All illegal in most eyes at the time. A gentleman from Chicago or nearer could enjoy the teachings of a local pleasure docent while partaking in a game of chance (I guess that makes two so far) and a jigger of maple brandy.

It was down the worn mahogany passageway, thru the perfume wafting from Mae Watanabe's cabin, and beyond the engine room where Albert Swinton toiled over the keys of his hand-me-down typewriter. When one stood contemplating the merits of entry (as most did) you were treated to a most glorious symphony of sounds echoing warmly off the soundboard of the hull. The downbeat and bass of the pistons and the upbeat of steam releasing from the engine provided the foundation of the score whilst Albert solo'd on the Underwood with rapid vowel and consonant arpeggios and a delightful "ding/swish" of the carriage at the end of every bar.

Upon entrance you were either received by the warm, magnanimous, welcoming Albert or the distracted, curt and sharp Albert. The former was more likely but the latter could leave a lingering mark. Deadlines, reproaches, reviews or Rye had been known to contribute.

The Loon had a past as colorful as it's offices. You see Albert was forced offshore after his brainchild had been unceremoniously branded subversive by those that are oft referred to as "They". Before leaving the seminary and after departing Michigan Normal College he dreamt of starting his own publication featuring elevated works of prose, some that would be quite fictional...fanciful if you will. This in no way ran against the grain of his convictions or beliefs and was certainly not the cause of his departure from the hallowed institution. The cause, was of course, a girl. Now an accredited teacher, Lillian, whom he had met in school, had recieved word that there was a position to be had in northern Michigan...a town called Charlevoix...and the seeing her off at the train left a inoperable hole in Albert's heart. So on a rather unremarkable Tuesday Albert did a remarkable thing. He tossed his frock, veered far right from his best laid plans, hitched a ride on a breakfast cereal truck, and headed for marriage and life in the north.

The Evening Loon was an absolute delight until it wasn't. The monthly periodical was filled with pictures and stories that lifted the readers from the doldrums of a gray day and transported them to destinations of joy. The tales (loosely based on actual events and people) were not so much commentary but a happy rewriting making them more mirthful...even causing ladies with a two doily caution to smile unabashedly and giggle without control. But "They" didn't want it at the newsstand, or at the diner on the counter, or in the homes glowing down Dixon Ave at night. "They"already had a dignified proprietor of actual news and information that they owned and operated...this was viewed as a danger to them and those close to them. So they began a campaign; pressuring advertisers to pull their monies, urging a school board visit upon Lillian to offer "guidance in these matters",and finally "They" donated a much needed wood stove to Wulfman's newsstand and within only a few weeks the Loon's wings were clipped.

So Albert went underground or under decks as it were. The Loon rose like a phoenix from the ashes with the backing of a more open minded clientele from the cities and was available in the upper salons of the Keuka as well as on the many steamers arriving from destinations around Lake Michigan. It became the first and most sought after on board publication (a precursor to today's in flight offerings) and most likely would have continued its growth and popularity if proper consideration had been given to the weight of the 2nd printing press.

On a moonlit night in Oyster Bay, the forged iron press exited the Keuka, splintering thru the hull taking the June edition of the Evening Loon and it's editor down for a second time.

Lillian Swinton never remarried and Albert didn't get to share in the birth of my grandfather George Donald Swinton and I am the new editor of The Evening Loon.

Big doings on the Rural route this week.

The foyer of memorial weekend is always a crowded space. This holiday marks the beginning of the 90 day Summer Business Crapshoot and even Old Man Kaswicki has some pace behind his waddle.

Boat docks are unearthed, unstacked and positioned..doing handstands over the water. The lifts are grunted into place, followed by the boat trailer parade down the lakeshore road to the launches for their baptism into the sacred waters of the French Indians.

The old land line phones shake off the dust ringing for the first time in many moons. Slip covers and shutters are summoned into motion and the 2 Ladies on a Broomstick cleaning business is back in full swing. (There's actually three of 'em but the cards were already printed)

Tractors are taking up more than their share of the interstate, the town's lone cab is practicing the run from the airport to the Inn, and there's a crisis of debris and brush clearance...removing nature's various art installations from the beaches and green spaces.

Lakeshore Sign&Banner is already back logged with last minute demand from the new seasonal shops, and sagging under the weight of the village economic development team's winter brainchild, "Food Trucks and Fire Engines". Bit of a truth in advertising cheat with only one HotDog Pickup currently signed up. There is talk of a Casserole Chevy and a Fajita Flatbed but we're not getting our hopes up just yet.

The Ellsworth's niece back from the State Ag college for Summer is breathing new life into Drummond farm. She has faux painted the old farm stand, is advertising nutrition classes to be held in the horse barn Wednesdays, and Yoga&Yogurt nights in July.

The most prolific growth however is the town gossip seeded in the Bookstore Coffeshop which in a curious twist sells no coffee table books. Chairs are scattered amongst the row of books...the volunteer ladies are over by the community choir gals (in the Crafts section) and the retired Coffeepreneurs are morphing over their smallish chairs...appropriately in Fiction. The gossip (at least this morning) in "Dewey decimal" order is this:

The currently empty Ravenous Pig has been bought up by a Farmington Hills restaurant group who intends on selling cigars, bourbon and bacon wrapped hotdogs along with other gastropub fare. There is talk of a hookah bar altho no one is quite sure whether that's a type of beer or a food item.

A Saudi sailor (really) has made a multi million dollar offer to buy the town park so he can build a lake palace and a personal marina complete with heliport. He has proposed putting the new replacement park on a barge and floating off the point by the softball fields.

The kids playground wants a change in ordinance to have a 12' yellow slide installed. The planning commission thinks this might be a slippery slope that may open the floodgates for retailers to ask for colorful slides in front of their stores...so the city attorney has to be consulted and an exploratory team assembled.

And finally...

The fire that occurred out at the antique mall may be deemed suspicious amongst reports of a naked man with a gas can sighting. He was purportedly on a Schwinn or other late model bike and was seen shortly after the Friday Strollin in the Streets festivities. Identification has not been possible so far as he was apparently wearing a codpiece.