They were huddled over this local rag in a small diner, swilling joe and searching for an abandoned nest. “Rustic Sophistication” the ad read, leaving one to wonder if this was unaffordable for this newly married graduate school bound kid from Chicago. But then 
again this was Ann Arbor, a city much like Madison, liberal, educated, interested, imaginary, and certainly sophisticated. And the times, which are always changin’ by the way, were ripe with protest. Ronald Reagan had just become the top dog, James Watt was running the Interior Dept. (into the ground, actually), Princess Diana just had her historic wedding, and some ass shot John Lennon dead.
again this was Ann Arbor, a city much like Madison, liberal, educated, interested, imaginary, and certainly sophisticated. And the times, which are always changin’ by the way, were ripe with protest. Ronald Reagan had just become the top dog, James Watt was running the Interior Dept. (into the ground, actually), Princess Diana just had her historic wedding, and some ass shot John Lennon dead.
As fate goes, he went, 15 miles out to a small rural area known as Whitmore Lake, where he drove back deep into this 50 acre wooded land, once a ski resort, back when skis were wood and the tow rope was turned by an oil drum engine. The 80’ spruce trees got his attention and the large hills and valleys lured him in like a carrot on a stick. Once to the top and parked, he approached the old man’s main home cautiously (he now wonders why cautiously at that point, not knowing of course all that would happen in the days and months ahead, the strange occurrences that would unfold, woven in the psyche of the old man, and culminating in a near death experience) and watched as the door opened before his hand could complete the knock.
This large old man was large (6’-5”, 260 lbs) but not really old. He looked 70 but was really about 50. But his years as an iron worker had taken a toll, both physically and psychologically. The accident had given him reason to retire with a large settlement check, which he promptly used to buy this hideaway land (or so he said) and enter into a life as a reclusive hermit. He had an Amish-type wife and three sons. None spoke, but him of course. His name was Bryan, but he responded only to sir.
The main house, made completely of large fieldstone, obviously the ski lodge many years prior, sat on the very top of the hill, while his new rental was in a nice private spot about 300 yards down in the woods. He and his young wife would have to park at the end of the ½ mile gravel drive and walk a ways up through he trees to get to the small red cedar framed home with white shudders. It was the Northwood’s kind of place he had always had in his mind since first reading Thoreau a few years back. Everything was as they both wanted, everything was good.
To be continued.....
