And So It Is, and So It Was

A down-to-earth landscape artist from Detroit, Patrick Slavich returns to the family home in the northern Michigan town of Ironwood, where his greatgrandfather settled many years ago. After divorcing his wife, Patrick looks forward to his return to his family's home, because it's where he will be able to relax and enjoy the unspoiled natural beauty of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. The millions of stars that glisten up against the black velvet, that coat the oh so silent night. The crispness in the air that is so rich, one could almost drink it like a cool refreshing glass of water after a long hot day in the heat of July. One day, Patrick stops at an antique store to have his palm read, the man reading his palm seems to be getting a lot of facts about his life right. But how could he have known these things, will his predictions for the future come true? Soon, a sinister family secret reveals itself, altering his memories of the past and threatening his future. Jacob White, the palm reader, is a supernatural force from the "old country" who has preyed upon the Slavich family for centuries. Now, he returns to eliminate Patrick and everything that he holds dear.

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And So It Is, and So It WasBy James R. MesichiUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2010 James R. MesichAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-2671-4 Chapter One And so it is, and so it was, that I set out to rediscover the past that I so loved as a child. The millions of stars that glistened up against the black velvet, that coated the, oh, so, silent night. The crispness in the air that was so rich, one could almost drink it like a cool refreshing glass of water after a long hot day in the heat of July. The tugging of the fishing line as the bobber disappeared down into the blackness of the icy lake water below the aluminum fishing boat, which swayed like a comfortable hammock with every ripple that glanced up against her sides. The being able to see forever as one looked out to the horizon from the highest hillside and see nothing but what God had intended the land to be, and that was beauty in the purest sense of the word. The deep greens, and the light greens that blended together like a magnificent patchwork on a quilt sewn by the hands of nature herself. The wild life that never seemed to end, from the deer and the bear that roamed freely underneath the safety of the lush green canopy, to the birds and squirrels that lived high above the fertile ground below. The streams, and rivers, that pulsated with life through the densest parts of the forest, bringing life to the living thing that it was, and will always be. The place was and still is a place almost lost in time itself. Michigan's Upper Peninsula is a place where man hasn't had much of a hand in disfiguring its beauty as he has had in almost every other corner of these, United States of America. The land has been left to bathe in its natural beauty. No theme parks, no over grown cities, no major industry to pollute its waters, no overcrowding of the population to push out into the many pristine forests that spill into one another. It is a place of slow paced living. What can be done today, can be done just as easily tomorrow. That is what seems to be the unspoken motto. It is a thing of beauty, in this fast paced blur of a world we share. To actually have a moment or two to catch one's breath without feeling guilty about not doing this or not doing that, is as rare as digging a hole in one's backyard and finding a flawless five carat diamond wrapped up in a gift box lying in the bottom of it. Some things just shouldn't be, but they are. Peace was what I was in search of. The city life back in, Detroit, was something that I needed a break from. There was also a rough and bitter divorce from my wife of fifteen years that was something that I needed to get away from. Too many memories, around every street corner, let alone the friends and family who would look at me with those pitiful eyes of theirs. It left me feeling like a dog on his way to the pound. It seems the only ones left smiling after a divorce are the lawyers. It was a breath of fresh air when I crossed the Mackinaw Bridge. I could feel the strings that were holding me back sever as I crossed that bridge. My heart instantly grew lighter as I managed my first grin in weeks. It is odd how a structure made of cold steel and cement, could leave me feeling so warm and comfortable inside as I crossed its length. Looking back now, I guess the crossing of the bridge was some sort of symbol to me. Leaving the cancer of a life behind and feeling the healing of something totally different on the opposite shore line of Lake Michigan. It was nice watching the lower half of Michigan disappear in my rearview mirror. The sky was getting bluer up ahead. The ride along U.S. 2 was a quiet one. With its two lane road that cut its way through the surrounding forest as it snaked way it's toward my destination. My heart rate had slowed and the twitch in my right eye had left me. I was going to be up there for a while and nothing could have felt better. With the trucks windows open, I could feel the wind rushing in and it smelled pure and clean. It's funny how something pure and clean can have a smell to it, but it does. It is the smell of everything good in life, before man has a chance to spoil it and leave one gasping for oxygen like a drowning man going down for the third time. I breathed in deeply and enjoyed it as if it were a fine glass of wine. I was nearing my destination and nothing could have felt more right, I mean what could possibly go wrong? Chapter Two Sinking over the horizon was the cherry red sun, as it sank it painted the town of Ironwood a pinkish hue. It made the town look as if it were a blaze. With glistening reflections of the sun's brightness radiating from nearly every window came shattered bits of dancing flashes of light that mixed in with Ironwood's redness and created the illusion of flames. It was simply awesome. I felt as if I were driving into a painting. The town nestled in neatly with the surrounding country side, with its rolling hills and endless forest that seemed to go on forever. It created quite the frame for the living picture. My memories of this place were many, but never in any of my memories had I ever seen Ironwood this dreamlike before. I was almost tempted to pinch myself, but I didn't, because if I was dreaming I didn't want to wake up. With my finger tips tapping lightly on the steering wheel I sang along with a song on the radio, Robert Plant, need never worry about me. Stairway to Heaven didn't sound too heavenly as I strained my train wheels skidding on a rusty train track vocal cords. I could only imagine the creatures of the forest as they ran for cover from my crying banshee singing voice. They say that people can't really hear what they sound like through their own ears, I feel that sometimes evolution is a good thing. Slowly I made my way up the side of the steep hill where my father's childhood home was located. To my right was the old high school, its halls had been empty for quite a while, the town's population had dropped off after the closing of the iron mines many years prior. It was a sad testament to the decline of Ironwood. The spirit was still strong but there just wasn't much flesh left for it to live in. As a child I played around the school, summer vacations, something to live for. Baseball, football, tossing the Frisbee, all with kids I hardly knew. It didn't matter in those days all that mattered was that you could spit and chant out players statistics like a holy man at prayer hour. It didn't take much to fit in. A smile began to spread across my face as I looked out toward the silent field and remembered the good times stored in my head. Over the years of my lifetime I've destroyed many brain cells, but thank God, those particular ones were spared. Off in the distance I saw a porch light on, it was the end of my destination, my father's childhood home. No one lived in it any longer. I owned it but rarely inhabited it. Taxes were cheap and crime was pretty much none existent, so it was a worry free memory that I chose never to let go of. And at that particular moment I was mighty happy that I hadn't. My controlling ex always tried to get me to sell it off, but like most other things, I chose not to listen to her. Again a smile came to my face. Pulling up the driveway I could almost see my father sitting on the front porch in his favorite chair while sipping a clod one as his cigarette smoldered in an ashtray next to him with the tip of it pulsating from lighter to darker colors of burnt orange as a slight breeze would whisper up against it. I turned down the radio. The neighborhood was very quiet this time of the evening. A child or two could be heard screaming as they played off in the distance, little else was left to disturb stillness of the night. The city life was about seven hundred miles away and the people in this small town liked it that way. I slipped the forty year old key into the front door's tired key hole and twisted it clockwise until I could feel the inner workings of the lock give way. It was a good solid feeling. Some things are just built to last. I gripped the knob as I twisted my hand and pushed open the door, there was a smell to the house and it made me smile when I breathed it in. It wasn't a bad smell it was just the smell of the house. It seems every house has its own signature smell and that was this one's. A bit of old was the smell, kind of like opening an old book that you know you're going to enjoy, that was the kind of smell that greeted me. The house was dark, except for a light that was left on in the kitchen. It was my beacon. I moved toward the light, I walked slowly, making sure that I didn't kick anything over with my size twelve feet. As I walked past the couch I let my palm run up along its velvet like cloth, I enjoyed doing this as a child and continued to do so as I grew older. The floor had a creek to it, but it didn't mean that the floor was bad it just meant that the house had character. Once I was in the kitchen I clicked on the light and moved towards the dinner table. There was a plate of oatmeal and raisin cookies sitting on it with a note sticking out from underneath the plate. I read the note as I enjoyed one of the moist cookies. The note and the cookies were from one of the neighbor ladies who lived a couple of doors over, she was kind of my personal caretaker. She spoke broken English, but she was still easy to understand, memories of my grandparents. The old country, its roots grew deep here. She said that she had gone over the house and gave it a good cleaning, which meant that no piece of dust survived the assault, the dust didn't stand a chance. The note also added that the cupboards were full, as was the refrigerator and there was a fifth of Jack Daniels in the freezer. Mrs. Lorenz spent the three hundred dollars that I had sent her well. When I finished the note I went to the freezer and pulled out the bottle of Jack, removed the plastic seal, twisted off the frosted cap and proceeded to take a nice long draw of Mr. Daniel's finest. Cookies and Jack what a great combination! Walking through the hallway to the living room I saw all of the old family pictures hanging on the walls. There was one of my, grandfather, when he wore a younger man's clothes. He was a solid man, the mines saw to that. I remember being told how strong his handshake was, like a vice my father would say. I don't remember that being the case whenever he shook my hand, I only felt love. He later died of black lung disease, the mines also saw to that. There was another one of my, grandmother, she was a full figured woman who always had her hair tied back and a hair net over it. Something left over from the old country I guess. Anyway, it seemed to fit her. She was something of the town doctor in the old days, before modern medicine arrived. The woman could walk through the forest and pick out backwoods cures like someone walking through their local pharmacy, no prescription necessary. Some tree bark here, some roots over there, maybe what looked to be a weed over in that spot, and then the next thing to happen, someone was cured. She was an amazing woman indeed, but the thing that I remembered most about her was her cooking. Ah, the aroma that flowed from her kitchen was magical. I could sample the food just by the herbs and spices that mingled into its scent. It was rich and full bodied. She would smile when she spied me peering around the corner of the kitchen doorway to see what she might be conjuring up. I was never let down, it made my mother a little bit jealous when she saw the fuss I made over her cooking, but that all disappeared after we all sat down to dinner and enjoyed the feast. When my grandmother passed away the kitchen was never quite the same to me, it was cereal without the sugar. The next picture was of my father from when he was a young man. It seemed funny to see him with hair on top of his head, moss on a rock so to speak, it just didn't look normal. But he still had his smile age didn't take that away from him. Although in the later years his smile was quite a bit brighter false teeth took care of that. He always wanted a real bright smile the dentist gave him his wish. Sometimes I wondered if they ran on batteries. The final picture hanging on the wall was one of my, uncle, he was gone but not forgotten. I loved him more than my own Father. I know that sounds bad but to be plain and simple about it sometimes things are what they are, no more, no less. He was smiling his gold toothed smile as he was holding up a stringer full of plump brook trout. That was my, uncle, always catching his limit. When he died a hundred secret fishing holes went silent with him. After reaching the end of the hallway I found the stairway leading to the second floor of the house waiting for me. Having grown up in a one story home it always seemed odd to me when I was a child that I could walk through the ceiling and find more bedrooms, along with a nice sized bathroom waiting for me on the other side. It was a thing to marvel at. Gliding my hand up along the smoothly worn handrail brought warmth to my tired soul and a smile to my eyes. I loved this house it was the opposite of everything I had left back in Detroit and that was the most perfect thing about it. The shattered glass of a bad marriage to the fine china of being accepted for my imperfect self is what it was. Once I had reached the top of the stairs I saw the object of my affection, it was the first door on the right. My Uncle's room was where I would be staying during my time spent in the house and it was empty and waiting for life behind the door I was looking at. The view from the bedroom window was breath taking to say the least. It faced out over the forest and scattered lakes, which went on for as far as the eye could see. I would set one of my easels up next to it and catch the ruby red rays of the morning sun as they painted themselves upon the treetops and lakes much as I would paint them on my canvas. I am an artist, some critics might differ from that claim, but it's paid the bills and given me a freedom from the nine to fiver I so cherish. Colors, once properly blended together, are gifts from the Gods. To see them melt together and become one with one another is what makes art art. My father always thought that I was a little light in the loafers because of my passion for art. That was, until, he saw how well it paid the bills. The color green, I think that is the color I will paint him. Money can't buy love, but it sure can buy respect. It was getting late by the time I finished unloading and thoughts of sleep had entered my mind as the miles from the road tried to lay claim over my lead like eye lids. But victory did not belong to the road on this night. A cold shower and a diet cola would help in bringing me around to where I wanted to be. And that was in one of the local establishments down Main Street, shooting a friendly game or two of pool while I sipped on some of the good stuff poured over ice. I could smell the smoke as it mingled with the stale air all ready, I'm not a smoker, but it was a part of the painting and without it, it wouldn't be complete. A clean set of clothing felt good after the shower, nothing better than a flannel shirt on a cool Northern Michigan evening. It was the end of August. But in the U.P. evenings often feel like early October does in most other parts of the country. This was fine with me I've always liked blankets up around my neck and the windows left open at night. Central air is nice, but I'll take fresh air over caned air any day of the week. Hank Jr. was playing over the juke box when I walked into the establishment. The name of the bar was Buck's Place. It seemed every small town up here had its own Buck's Place. Of course no one was really named Buck. Hell, Buck's head was always stuck on one of the walls. Usually with a baseball cap draped over part of its rack. I remember one night someone put a light cigarette in old Buck's mouth. He was a trooper, he didn't flinch an eye. Not once did he cough. Yes, old Buck may have been dead, but he still had a lot of fight left in him. I pulled up a stool and sat down next to the pickled eggs. I've had them before, but only when I couldn't walk straight. Things have always tasted better to me when I couldn't walk straight. "What can I get for you?" asked the bartender as he wiped out a beer glass with the towel that had been draped over his shoulder. "Jack over ice." I said as I stretched out and felt everyone of my vertebras snap into place. The last of the road had left my body. Slowly he poured the caramel colored liquid over the waiting ice and as he did I could hear the ice crackle and pop. He filled it till it was three fingers high. Old Buck hired good help. "Where are you from?" He sat the glass down in front of me. "Detroit." It sipped just fine. "You're a long way from home. What brings you up here?" (Continues...) Excerpted from And So It Is, and So It Wasby James R. Mesich Copyright © 2010 by James R. Mesich. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

James R. Mesich has been writing for over thirty years. He has taken some creative writing classes at one of the local colleges. In his own words, he doesn't just tell a story, he shows a story. He lives just outside Detroit, has two grown children, and is a big Tigers fan!

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