★One Christian Woman’s View on the Outlander Series★

(I originally shared this entry during Outlander's first season. I took it down weeks later because I actually feared the judgment of some of my church-going friends. A couple years ago, one of them, who is in her seventies, told me that she and her very spiritually stalwart husband are big fans of Outlander. Since the show recently concluded, I will bravely repost it and it will stay on here.)

     Two years ago Pamela, a neighbor of mine, was excited to discover that I was a writer. She knew I was of Scots-Irish descent and that I like strong female lead characters in the books that I write, as well as those that I read. She asked me if I had time to read just one more book. I flatly told her that I didn’t have time. I had my own novels to complete. She insisted, and handed me a paperback. I sat in her living room and contemplated the thick blue book she’d reverently placed in my hands, an almost worshipful look in her eyes. I handed it back to her and said, "I can’t take your book, it must mean a lot to you." 

     "That’s quite all right," she insisted. "The author signed the entire series for me, in hardback! You can keep this copy."

     Then Pam began to tell me the tale of Claire Randall, an army nurse enjoying her first real vacation just after World War Two. She is on her second honeymoon with her beloved husband Frank, a man she knows very little about because their respective assignments with the British army had separated them shortly after their wedding. She and Frank are attempting to rekindle their love in Scotland, enjoying the countryside when Claire finds herself at a small version of Stonehenge. She is transported back two hundred years, but in her disorientation doesn’t realize the full impact of her journey. At first she thinks she’s found herself in the middle of a historical reenactment. 

     Claire thinks she sees Frank, but the man before her is actually a distant relative of his, serving in the army of King George. Clad in full red-coated malevolence, “Black Jack” Randall will take advantage of any situation. Usually Randall’s favorite prey is young men, but Claire is alone and he is a cruel, mean opportunist. He seizes Claire, about to have his way with the helpless time traveler, when a Scotsman takes her captive, in essence saving her. She later meets a wounded Scot named Jamie, a family member of the Clan MacKenzie. Before they take their journey to the MacKenzie Castle Leoch, Claire tends to Jamie’s bullet wound and resets his dislocated shoulder. She later becomes a healer to the people at the stark grey castle. (Thus begins an adventure that I later discovered contains eight books with more to come.) 

     Pamela spent at least a half hour telling me what I summed up in the synopsis above. She smiled, showed me her hardback copies signed by author Diana Gabaldon, then handed me the paperback once more.  ". . .and I hear that casting has begun to make a movie of the first book! Here, give Outlander a chance." Her dogs were panting. It was a hot, humid July evening. I was literally itching to leave at this point. She looked at me, imploring me to read the story. '"t’s historical fiction."

     I, like most Mormons, participate in genealogy and love history, so I acquiesced and told her I would read the novel. I took it home and never opened it. In the winter I returned to the desert and placed the paperback on a shelf, where it remained unopened. The following spring, my daughter and I both began to read Outlander and I even listened to it on a CD borrowed from the library. I was in for a surprise, led into a very sensual, well written story. The plot, subplots and scenes sometimes left me shaken. Many times I felt like I was alongside Claire in her harrowing adventures. 

     My daughter Marie later found out that a television series was in the works, more than just the movie that Pam had gushed about. I had so much to share with my Outlander-loving friend! I called Pam’s phone, left messages and also texted to tell her how exciting the book was, but never heard from her. I found it strange, but I knew she had a horse and was busy with grooming and riding, so when I returned to Michigan I knocked on Pam’s door. She didn’t answer. I tried a few days later. Still no answer. I found it strange that her dogs weren’t barking like they usually did whenever I knocked. Pam wasn’t one to hang out on Facebook, but when she didn’t even respond to the birthday wishes left on her timeline, I began to worry. I found out from a young lady later that month that Pam had suddenly moved away. She’d had terminal cancer and hadn’t told anyone except those closest to her. My friend was gone; taken from this earth. I was in a momentary state of shock. My mind was floating in a purgatory-like frame-of-mind, I had nobody that I could share the Outlander adventure with. 

     Later in August, the real adventure began. I was heart-sick that Pam couldn’t share in it. Producer Ron Moore and the STARZ Channel gave Outlander fans what they’d been waiting for, the series “Outlander,” an epic drama combining romance, history, science fiction and very realistic battle scenes. The cinematography and score are beautiful in their own right, braiding and knotting Diana Gabaldon’s stories into a beautiful, gripping saga. . .and there is controversy, at least among Americans. 

     The show is European in style and most of us in the USA are not used to nudity. Let me point out to those of you reading my blog, this is not pornography. It may be classified as erotica, but even then I personally would not call it that. The episodes feature nudity, but the love-making is between a husband and his wife. Without giving all plotlines away and spoiling the stories for potential viewers, the groom is a virgin man, a Catholic, who honors the virtue of womanhood. It is better explained in the novels, but he will not take advantage of a woman’s heart. There are a couple episodes dealing with rape and an honorable young man is tortured and sodomized by Black Jack Randall, the previously mentioned sadistic Redcoat. The poor lad is violated both body and soul. Former military nurse Claire is the only one who has 20th Century knowledge of how to heal his wounds, but how will she mend his soul? She confesses her plight to a robed man of God in a monastery that she and her Scottish rebels have taken shelter in. The monk gently listens to her tale of time travel and calls it a miracle. He urges her to bring the sexually abused Scottish warrior back to the light. I found this refreshing. Many times Christian beliefs are maligned in our modern media. 

     Bringing her beloved patient back to what is light and good and Holy prove to be a challenge as the lad has pledged his soul and body to the Redcoat devil, Black Jack. The victim’s God-father suggests that Claire may have to step into the darkness herself to bring the scarred and branded man back into the light. The poor youth’s mind is so broken from the cruel psychological games that he partially blames himself for being repeatedly violated by Black Jack. The Redcoat had already attempted to rape both the man’s sister Jenny and his beloved Claire. She struggles to bring the lad back to his senses and make him believe that none of this was his fault. 

     I will admit, although I am only part way through the book series and I just watched the last episode of the first season, there are times I just have to step away. Due to my own life experience and trauma, the last things I want to witness are violence, battles, blood and psycho-sexual torture; but I want to read the entire series. I’m also considering the companion books in the Lord John Grey Series. 

     As much as I love “Outlander” on STARZ I will warn you, my readers, this show is not for the faint of heart. It is rated for Mature Audiences. The scenes can be gory and heart wrenching. Seeing a man die after a boar hunt was perhaps the most heartbreaking episode in the first season for me, next to the scenes where Black Jack Randall takes a mallet to his current prisoner’s hand, delivering powerful, repeated blows meant to cripple the victim. There is full frontal nudity, both male and female. The sexual scenes, while not meant to arouse, may do just that. The aforementioned young couple is newly married and very much in love. I personally would have preferred a version that would leave more to the imagination. 

     The bottom line is author Diana Gabaldon has weaved a tale that, although it begins in Scotland and contains the supernatural, tells the story of why there was an American Revolution. The wild, freedom-loving Scots were denied their culture, their local government and the man they believed was king was replaced by a false king—George the Second. He was later succeeded by his grandson George the Third (the King of England during the American Revolutionary War). The Scots, many of whom were shipped to the American Colonies and then sold into indentured slavery following Culloden, were not about to live under tyranny again. 

     To me, the Outlander series tells the story of freedom and America. The show is igniting and reigniting people to think about what freedom means. It goes beyond fireworks and a weekend off work. It is the right to think and believe and survive without being compelled by a king or any government. It reminds us that we the people make and keep the laws, not a king or a few people in a central government. It means that the citizens will make their own informed decisions and rule themselves by the laws of God despite power-hungry politicians that believe they know better than free-minded individuals. 

     If the series encourages viewers to think about where their ancestors came from and what they ultimately fought for then that’s only the beginning. I hope that Ron Moore’s television series based on Diana Gabaldon’s book will never sanitize the horrors of war or become politically correct. History is history, something to learn from, a launching point to discuss political issues, not gloss them over. Romance and a little divine intervention are interwoven into this tale to make it sell, of course. In the meantime, I fully intend to enjoy the scenery. While I’m at it, I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks." 

#PamHill #Outlander #Starz

My Secret Friend

     I will try to tell this story as plainly as I can. It is from my childhood.

     In the 1970s, when I was in grade school, I was bullied. Except for the friends that I could count on my fingers (right hand only) I was called names, beat by teachers, and struck many times a week by students. Some so-called friends actually joined in the bullying then came over to play when school was out. I was grateful for any little scrap of positive attention and I lived for summer.

     My parents were in a German Club in the Detroit area. Many times, my mother and our neighbor, Adelle, would help out at festivals. Other times my parents and their friends would go to region-wide parties as far away as Ontario. I really enjoyed myself at these celebrations.

     One festival, if I remember correctly, was at the Yack Arena in Wyandotte. If not, it was a similar venue somewhere in Michigan or Ontario. As usual, I’d sneak up to the balconies while my mother and the “Ladies Aid” participants would sort items, prepare dishes and do other tasks. I’d pretend to have friends and play up there, but one time, two children, a brother and a sister, were there with me! We sat on rolled up carpets and talked about popular music bands (the Archies' kind of music, The Guess Who or Partridge Family tunes).

     After a while the German band began to rehearse. The girl (I forgot her real name but I’ll call her Kaley) said, “My brother has a crush on you. He wants to dance.”  The boy was a little shorter than we were and I assumed he was younger than us two girls, but it turns out Kaley was actually his little sister. It was awkward at first, but we did a silly polka-kind of dance right there on the balcony, all three of us. After that we sat and played a little while longer. I thought the boy said his name was Keno. They were half Asian (which was uncommon in Detroit) and I remember telling them my sisters were half Japanese. I also said I would not forget his name because my mother’s favorite game when she went to Reno was Keno. (Yeah, the random thinking of my ADHD childhood brain.)

     We peered over the cinderblock balcony and watched the preparations. My mother and her friends, Adelle, Alice and Inga wore their pretty dirndls. Keno called the band an “OOMPAH” band and said the performers wore lederhosen. I had no idea that’s what the shorts were called, and I’d actually been to Germany. We talked about books. I think Kaley really liked to read like I did, but Keno talked about the cool books at school that were about little dogs that ate their owners when the owners died at home and nobody found them for days. He also talked about spontaneous combustion where someone suddenly catches on fire. I said, “You mean like they drop a cigarette while sleeping?”

     Keno said, “No, they just suddenly burst into flames!”

     I’d never heard of such things, but I sure read about it later that week before school let out. (Thank you Scholastic Books!)

     Some other time, Keno and I walked around what may have possibly been another venue. He pointed out bleachers that were pushed flat against a wall and not in use because people were setting up for the festivities. His mother was busy somewhere, I think, discussing costumes for some performers or dancers. He talked about how the floor usually didn’t have dancing and bands. It was used for hockey games and ice skating. I was amazed that ice could cover that floor, but he said so. Who was I to question? It was late by the time the festival was under way and I was sleepy. There were some actual seats pushed back behind the stage and I fell asleep. Keno was no longer around, yet somehow my parents found me tucked back there.

     The last time I remember seeing my friends, I was for sure in Canada. There was a big party out in the street in Kitchner or London, Ontario, I think. There were carnival rides, but I was only allowed to go on one or two. Tents were set up everywhere. There was an actual bakery. It wasn’t open, but the door was unlocked and we all went in and looked at the empty cases, dreaming of the sweet desserts that should have been there. We played for a short time, then they were gone.

     A couple years later, I was in junior high. I heard my class was going to get a new student. The name sounded like Reno or Kemo and I got all excited! I missed my friend so much and was ecstatic that he’d moved to Taylor, Michigan! I looked at the newcomer with expectation. In came a tall Indian boy, slouching and glowering. I realized this was not my summer companion and quickly dropped my smile. He was a foster kid and was moved somewhere else a few weeks later.

     Another twenty-plus years passed. By that time, in the mid- 90s, there was an actor that seemed so adorable. He was in several films that I’d seen. Despite the reality that I was married with children, I still had a little crush on this performer.

     It was around that time that I remember my oldest sister and my nieces Wendy and Valerie were visiting. My parents, husband and children were talking and relaxing. I had the latest copy of People Magazine in front of me. While we visited, I thumbed through the publication, mainly to give my hands something to do. I saw a cute little elementary era photo and recognized my dear old secret friend right away. I laughed at first and said, “I know this kid!” I skimmed the article, and learned later as I read it thoroughly, as well as another article, that this rising star was from Canada and played hockey. There was no doubt that it was him.

                                              My secret friend. Keanu Reeves.

                                          Childhood school photos of Keanu Reeves and Liesa Swejkoski

#KeanuReeves #Wyandotte #YackArena #GermaniaClubDownriver #Downriver #Detroit #Kitchener

I Posted This On a Service Dog Discussion Page (Michigan Does, Indeed, Have a Volunteer Registry)

 "Disabled people don’t owe strangers their medical history, and service dogs don’t need to fit someone else’s idea of what 'real' or 'right' looks like in order to be legitimate."

-Barbara Lloyd

     Regarding service animals and ADA Laws, there are a lot of heated discussions. Sometimes people with no idea what a service dog is versus an ESA become watch-dogs at public venues (pun intended). Actual disabled individuals that have service dogs also weave some very interesting opinions. In my experience:  

1. I've had strangers demand that I produce some sort of paperwork- to them!

2. Many so-called service dog advocates tell me there is 
a. no certification 

and 
b. no registry.

     My late brother-in-law Brad Scott was a trainer, and later a dean of admissions, at Leader Dogs for the Blind in Rochester, Michigan.
I'm pretty sure their dogs have health certificates as well as proof that they graduated from their classes. Not all service animals have them, but telling someone that certificates are indicators of fake dogs is WRONG.

     Some states do have voluntary registries. The state of Michigan has such a department, based in its capital, Lansing. There is no fee to apply. My own medical team signed affidavits for me to register. They would not put their careers on the line if I was a fake. Not all handlers want to register and they don't have to, but I sometimes stutter and panic when nosey knuckleheads literally follow me and badger me at my local mall. If they cause a scene and I fall over, I want my state issued card to do the talking for me. (I'm going to guess that Michigan's purpose in providing a card is our proximity to Canada.)

     Recently, I actually got kicked out of a Facebook service dog group when I explained these facts because one of the administrators had a "favorite" top fan that was convinced he was the one that was right. My simple explanation, as stated above, offended him deeply. He went running and crying to the administrators and got his way, sadly. 

     So, to sum it up, let's not police each other. Let managers and restaurant owners do their jobs. All they are legally allowed to ask are two questions: "Is this your service animal?"  and "Is it trained to mitigate your disability?" Managers are not allowed to ask what your disability is nor can they demand to see exactly what your dog does. They still are within the law to remove out of control dogs whether pets, ESAs or actual service animals.

     Fact 1. Some dogs are certified but we are under NO obligation to show paperwork for our service dogs if we indeed have it.
     Fact 2. Some states have volunteer registries and telling a handler they are fake for having a legitimate card is rude and insulting.

     Fact 3.  Service dogs can have gear, but they are not obligated to wear a halo, specialized collar or signage if it impedes their tasks (or if the handler chooses not to have their animal wear a vest). I think the only exception for choosing not use a harness is dogs that lead the blind. They have specific gear that the clients hold on to.

      Fact 4.  Retrievers, Labradors and Shepherds are not the only breeds used as service dogs. Great Danes may be used for stability, especially for larger individuals. Jack Russells are great for alerting the deaf.  I myself use a collie-spaniel mix for my disabilities. The breeds are as varied as there are disabilities and needs.

     One more note, not all service animals are required to be on task 24-7. My conditions get worse in the evenings. I usually leave Teddi home for that reason (daytime, shopping in well-lit stores, work, and so on). However, when I travel, I'm in different, sometimes unexpected, circumstances and must have her with me.

     I hope these facts (and added opinions) as well as previous blog entries will help my readers understand a little more about service animals despite in-fighting amongst handlers, some of whom are learning the laws themselves. If you have any questions, please, refer to the link provided below. You may also share your thoughts in the comment section below this post.

     Thank you for reading and letting me share my blog with you.

     Facts and Federal Law  https://www.ada.gov/topics/service-animals/

     An example of Michigan's volunteer registration card.

#ADA #ServiceDogs #LeaderDogs #StateofMichigan #Disability #BarbaraLloyd #TheDogsDenTrainingSchool #LeaderDogsForTheBlind #SeeingEyeDogs

The Music May be Artificial, but I'm Feeling Real Good

      We're two weeks into the month of February and I realize that I didn't post at all since January! All I could manage to pen recently is a review that I will share with you.

******************************************************************

     Confession Time- My favorite new band is Velvet Sundown. Their music can be accessed several ways. My favorite method is to listen via YouTube. I enjoy their almost retro sound. The band's lyrics have a vaguely Vietnam War Era vibe.
     Here's the kicker for those of you who might enjoy this music as much as l do: the band is VIRTUAL. The music is created by artificial intelligence under the direction of at least one human. I believe this human "might be" the ingeniously talented Thomas Dolby who, just before Velvet Sundown's popularity rose, publicly embraced A I as a tool for musicians, from the cover art to the actual creation of music!
     While continuing to tune in and tune out under the influence of this band's words (that could be read as prose and poetry) accompanied by gentle yet powerful chords, l still have questions. If a virtual band is earning money, do they have virtual parties? Do they order a keg of virtual beer and trash a virtual hotel suite? Do they have virtual groupies and virtual girlfriends???? The questions are virtually endless!

#ThomasDolby
#velvetsundown 

Just Get Over It Already!

     Earlier this week, my book club ladies and I were discussing a novel about a vet returning from Afghanistan and the struggles she had to face. One lady wanted to know more about what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is exactly. 

(Disclaimer, I have been diagnosed with PTSD by several health professionals.)

     What is PTSD?  You can get it from living through a war, fighting in a war, experiencing any trauma as a civilian - or you might not. The same violent experience shared by any number of individuals might cause anxiety afterwards -- or it may not.

     For instance: you live in a neighborhood. Most of the people are great but you have that one guy down the street that regularly speeds past your home and blows through the school bus stop. Then there's the neighbor who has a pitbull. It's constantly digging in your yard. It ate another neighbor's cat-- alive. One day "Speedy" is floor-boarding it when Brutus jumps out between the garbage cans he was snacking from.  Even though he swerves his vehicle, the driver hits the dog with an audible thud and then strikes a tree. The man hits his head on the steering wheel on impact. Parts of Brutus go EVERYWHERE. Speedy gets out, checks his grill, curses & picks some fur out. He begins to rub his forehead. He’s not even sure whose blood he’s seeing when he pauses and looks at his hands! Realization hits the young man --what he thought was garbage in the street is actually a dog.

    Some people go on mowing their lawns. Other neighbors run to the driver. His mom gets to the crash. She's screaming. The dog's owners start arguing. Love them or hate them, at the scene there's two obvious victims, and unseen, maybe more!

     Some citizens are noticeably bothered, but in days, they are breathing easy. Some people go on for weeks and months, though, reliving the shared trauma. Every other night, Speedy wakes up screaming because he and Brutus were best buds even though the dog lived several homes away. Night after night he relives the moment he discovers what he thought was garbage knocked over was actually the dog he saw grow from a puppy to a goofball of a canine. Some neighbors are happy because the guy's driving slower since the crash & the pitbull that was allowed to run lose is gone. One or two homeowners, although relieved, are triggered by the sound of screeching tires in the market parking lot, or the sight of an animal dead on the roadside.

                                                   ***   Just Get Over It Already!  ***

     Some people down the street tell them to just get over it, but it's not that easy. My friends, that is PTSD. It is mental, physical and sadly, by extension, social. There is NO SHAME in it. We who actually suffer from PTSD put on a brave face in many cases because we’re told to “just get over it,” and to move on. Inside we are in turmoil struggling not to relive the trauma that is trapped in our souls; desperately trying to avoid triggers. In many cases we self-medicate along with therapy and medical intervention. Years of therapy. Years of doctor visits--

                                                           IT DOES NOT GET BETTER!

     We don’t need judgement. We need prayers and hugs. We need guidance, not shunning. We need programs that we paid taxes for to NOT be diverted to other programs, many of which are fraudulent.

 

     Thank you for your time.

A Blizzard of Memories

     Over the weekend, meteorologist Ryan Hall predicted heavy snow and high winds for the Great Lakes. I thought to myself if it doesn’t equal the Great Blizzard of 1978, it’s not such a big deal. I took into consideration that modern meteorologists can predict weather down to the hour, it seems, but predictions don’t lessen the power and impact of storms – it’s just that we are better prepared these days. Better preparation means warnings to stay off the roads (often unheeded). It also means salt trucks are ready, more emergency personnel may be scheduled, and hospitals can call in more staff.  I didn’t fear this storm. I didn’t believe for a minute it would compare to the event that nearly crippled the Great Lakes Region in 1978.

     My memory takes me to other blizzards, like the one when I was nine or ten. My family and I were coming back from Virginia. We were almost to the Michigan border when Ohio State Troopers blocked the highway and told us to get off Interstate 75. Traffic was diverted to the closest ramp. We followed a line of cars into Toledo. My mom, dad and I sat in a McDonalds that generously stayed open long past closing. The manager and staff started cooking more food and giving it away for free. The manager brought out board games, some of which were McDonalds themed. More people trickled in, seeing that the lights were still on. My dad went on a walk. He came back and quietly hustled my mother and I out of the little burger place and put us in our station wagon. My mother said she’d heard the interstate was still closed, after all, people were still gathering. My dad proudly proclaimed that he’d found the last vacant room at a truck stop. We went down a block, pulled in, went inside and then my dad got donuts and milk and a few other supplies from a gas station. My mother worried that the milk would spoil, but my dad assured her that it would keep just fine hidden in the bushes under the window. In fact, we had to thaw it for a couple mornings until the roads were opened up again.

     Then there was a great snowstorm in1982. The drifts were so high that there was maybe four inches of fence in spots. Our collies went right up to it but never went over the exposed chain-link. It was so cold that an arctic owl flew down to our neighborhood, looking and sounding like a ghost in the trees.

     Those were major blizzards, but the greatest of all, in my opinion, was the storm that paralyzed the Great Lakes in late January of 1978. I was thirteen. The flakes started, no different than most snowstorms.

     We’d recently got our first color television. It had a twenty-inch screen, laughable by today’s standards. This was a second-hand purchase from family friends who had recently upgraded.

     I had just gotten home from school and turned on channel 50, which was full of after-school shows geared towards family and children. Soon, my mother switched channels to watch the local news. Weatherman Sonny Eliot was saying something about sneezy weather, since it was going to be snowing and breezy. 

    The doorbell rang and my mother answered it. I looked out onto Allen Road in Taylor, Michigan thinking how pretty the flakes were; traffic was slow on our usually busy road, a major north-south five lane street if you counted the turn lane. I could hear the swish, swish of tires on wet pavement. I didn’t pay attention to whomever was at the door. I figured if it was a neighbor, they’d have been ushered inside. I saw beautiful big flakes and the evergreen bushes by our porch covered in white, their little red berries exposed. It was a month past Christmas, but it looked like a Holiday scene. A most beautiful feeling came over me. There was no foreboding whatsoever. My mother closed the front door. I turned back to the electric magic that danced in rainbow colors across our “new” TV. 

     The next day, I awoke to silence. Not one vehicle passed. The nearby Detroit Metro Airport was also silent. There were no locomotive sounds from the tracks just west of our home; not one. School was cancelled. My father did not go to work. Our long driveway had chest-deep drifts.

     My dad went out to the barn.  I watched from the back porch door. He had to dig out a set of barn doors to feed my horse. Sunshine took a step, arching a front leg forward, then another. She got both her hind legs past the dug out part and into the cold, white fluff and stood there belly deep for a moment. She promptly turned around and refused to go back outside for a few days.

     Our power went out. I don’t even remember getting one phone call during those couple days. I played a little tune here and there on our piano. During daylight we put a puzzle together and played some games. My mother had some cold cuts and fruit, but there was no real way to cook. We only had an electric range. At some point, my dad walked to a corner gas station for a gallon of milk. I assume the stranded employee just sheltered in place.  In the evenings we used candles for light.

     For days there were no ambulances, motorcycles, cars, trucks, planes, trains nor laughter of neighbors. The dogs, sheltering in the big red barn with the other animals, didn’t even bark. Our usually busy neighborhood was enveloped in an eerie, ominous stillness. Somehow, I do remember streetlights though.  I sat upstairs looking out the window one night. I gazed southward on Allen, drifting flakes swirling under the beams.

     In the distance came a roaring sound, motorized, but unlike a car engine. The low-toned buzz crept closer, still unfamiliar. A queer trepidation shook me from deep inside. Before long, I saw headlights and riders, but realized these were not motorcycles. Down the middle of our street coursed two snowmobiles which under normal circumstances would have found no actual snow on our street to function and even if they had, a car or truck would have collided with them. They made their way past our home and I ran to the north-facing window. I watched them travel toward Eureka. Once past all our trees, I could only hear them. Then silence returned. Perhaps twenty minutes later I heard the roaring engines again, but this time the riders in their snowsuits clutched bags or boxes of milk, beer, or food, on their way south.

     One morning, my horse was out stretching her legs, watching our collies and the neighbor dogs snarling and running up and down the fenceline. At some point our street was plowed and the din of traffic returned. The woosh of airplanes flying overhead left vaporized streaks in a new blue sky. Freight trains once again chugged on the trestle over Eureka Road. The next week, I went back to school and my dad was back to work.

     Here I sit, thinking about that storm and its overwhelming SILENCE! Our everyday commerce came to a standstill for a little less than a week. The snow, as high as a horse’s belly, the drifts up past her shoulders. For me there was no other way to measure.

     For several days, we've had heavy snow and fierce wind gusts. and I've heard we'll have this weather until at least Tuesday, with high drifts, possible. It's unlikely to rival that blizzard of 1978, but our gates are already blocked. We must be vigilant in taking water out to our animals -- it freezes so fast! 

     Monday afternoon an actual warning blared on my phone: A one hundred plus vehicle pile-up in Ottawa County, where I now live, was in progress. Then just north of my home another couple multi-vehicular crashes took place. Whether this January blizzard will be as significant as the one from forty-eight years ago, I do not know – but it does bring back memories.

 

What do you remember about the January 1978 blizzard that brought the Great Lakes region to its knees?

#Snow #Blizzard #Blizzardof1978 #collies #TaylorMichigan #Downriver #Toledo #ToledoOhio #Mcdonalds #Interstae75 #RyanHallYall #SonnyEliot #Horses #Barns #Detroit #OttawaCounty #AllenRoad #EurekaRoad

Michigan Dogman

 

     This year, along with family history, I’m going to include a few interesting tales and some Michigan lore. I hope these stories will make you ponder and question what you are so very sure about.

     Several years ago, I penned a blog entry called, “A Matter of Perspective.” In a way, this is an extension of that post. I’ll be putting myself in the first person as the character Debbie, but this is not my account. It was originally conceived as a Halloween Story based on actual witness testimony, but I never entered it on this blog since at that time, I was helping my boss close out her business.

 

 

In college, I used to live west of Grand Rapids. My friend Jean and I often walked before twilight. Some evenings we’d go to the edge of the state park so our friend Pat could join us. Pat was one of the security guards for the golf course that bordered the park and would routinely take a smoke break right about 8:30 pm. In autumn that was full dark.

     Jean and Pat and I were well acquainted with the path, rain or snow or dry conditions. The only time we wouldn’t walk it was during a windstorm because a branch could blow down and cause one of us to trip.

     This night Pat was about to light up when we heard a cracking sound, kind of like a pick-up truck driving through cornfields, but we were far from the road and nobody was allowed to drive in the woods. The only alternative was someone tearing up the turf at the course, but we could see no headlights. We heard no engine gunning for us.

     Then silence. Too quiet. Pat lit a cigarette.

     Jean joked that the sound might be the Michigan Dogman lurking nearby, and told a story about someone’s great grandfather seeing a dogman at his uncle’s hunting camp. Family lore said that the natives had reported them to the French and British all the way back a couple hundred years. Then Jean started talking about skinwalkers. The conversation faded since Pat and I were not buying it.

     We walked for another five minutes, maybe less, in silence. Then we heard an exhale. Loud. So powerful that it made the leaves and small branches beside us rattle!

     Pat hastily shone a flashlight where the state park and golf course fence met, about fifteen feet from us. Expecting a dog, maybe even a bear, at first the light was pointed close to the ground. We saw, long spindly legs, like a Barbie Doll’s, skinny but covered in dark brown fur. Pat’s beam traveled upwards to what could have been a hairy chest. The direct light illuminated what might have appeared to be a canine face, partially hidden behind pine boughs. Its hands, if you could call them that, were raised above its head, the fingers spread.

     Jean and I muttered, “Bigfoot,” under our breath but this beast was taller, maybe ten feet. Again it made a whooshing sound, exhaling at us menacingly.

     Pat dropped the cigarette and we high-tailed it to the guard building the moment the creature charged toward us. We could hear the monster’s footfalls on the pavement behind our backsides, gaining ground on our human bodies, weak compared to the lean, muscular, upright animal that we were now fleeing.

     We made it to the structure. Jean tripped over some decorative pumpkins left over from an earlier activity, falling hard on the inclined drive. I helped my friend up and we stumbled in through the doorway after Pat. Once inside the other guard, an older man close to retirement, yelled, “You’re late, where—”

     The man’s voice trailed off when he saw two more people with Pat. The old man looked angrier as we slammed the door behind us. “What the devil is going on?!”

     “It’s after us!” whispered Jean. We crouched down, the old man hunching over as he saw how visibly frightened we were.

     “What is after you? A coyote?” The old man sounded doubtful that this was anything more than college-aged students terrified of a puppy. Despite the radio being tuned into music from like thirty years ago, we heard heavy footsteps as something or someone brushed against the hedges near the front windows, crunching, chewing, and snorting its way around to the back as it searched for weaknesses in the shack’s clapboard walls. The old guard, no longer “the tough-guy,” suddenly realized the serious nature of our narrow escape, clutched his little transistor radio from another era, and fell into a chair in the corner.

     Muffled between the man's fingers, we heard the radio. A disc jockey asked listeners to call in to make a request or to share how their evening was coming along. He repeated the studio's number twice. I couldn’t remember my mother’s phone number. I couldn’t dial simple numbers like 911 or even zero! Despite my shaking hands and fingers that felt like deep-fried smelt, I grabbed the shack’s old yellow rotary phone and began to dial 2 3 1. . .

     “Hello, you are on the air, who am I speaking to?”

     “Dah, Duh,” I took a deep breath. “Debbie!”

     “. . . and how is your night, Debbie—are you spending this evening with your lover, or getting ready for Hal—”

     “We’re calling because, I think we just saw the Michigan Dogman!” I passed the phone around to my friends as we huddled beside the desk, telling him why we were calling.

     The DJ asked us a few questions and went along with us for a while, but then said, “You kids are great, you sure can tell a great Halloween story—”

     Jean fumbled for a PallMall in the almost empty pack, and flicked a lighter.

     “—Before I hang up, is there a song you’d like to request?”

     I dropped the phone on the floor. We all screamed. In the glow of Jean’s Bic, out the back window of the shed, on the low side that dropped off away from the parking lot, the dog-faced creature’s eyes glowed. It was tall enough to look into what could arguably be considered a second story! It was drooling.

     One of the dogman’s raised hands brushed the window as if to shatter it. Jean dropped the lighter. Its flame extinguished.

     The old man in the corner sobbed. “I seen it! I seen it! I seen it!”

     We waited in the darkness for the shattering of glass. After a couple songs, other listeners were calling in, saying what we saw was no joke, that the dogman was in some tales of the Odawa and from journals of old French traders in Ontario, Wisconsin and here in Michigan. One caller said that dogmen hadn’t been seen in nearly a hundred years but since the mid-90s more people were reporting them again in increasing numbers.

     The large footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves and gravel, fading farther and farther away. That’s when Pat screamed, “Run for the car!”

     The three of us scrambled for the door, shot out onto the drive, and dashed to the lot adjacent to the shack. Without looking back, we drove off, deserting the old guard. I think we busted a gate on the way out. Pat did not collect the last paycheck and we never spoke of it again. In fact, we never even went walking again, and within the year life took us down diverging paths.

     Decades later, after I moved to Indiana and married, then divorced and moved back, I took my kids and some of their cousins to the Upper Peninsula to camp. I told this story to my family around the campfire just as the sun went down. My oldest kid’s face was buried in his cell phone. Branches snapped in the woods behind me, dredging up that night from my memories.

     “Yeah, it was tall, and thin. Not like Bigfoot. Some say Sasquatch is maybe seven or eight feet tall. This dogman was maybe ten to twelve feet tall. It had upraised arms and its fingers spread out, like it wanted to grab one of us.”  I demonstrated with my arms in the air.

     My oldest let out a big sigh and turned his phone slightly toward the woods, “You mean something like this?” I figured he was going to show me his hasty Google search. Instead, his flashlight app was on and the beam shot toward the trees where more branches were crunching under the weight of something heavy.

     We all saw it: a tall, long legged, lean snarling beast, drooling as if it wanted to taste our blood; it’s arms, outstretched  in the dim light. My son sat still. I clutched my young daughter to my chest and she whimpered. My other children and their cousins began to cry and scream, and the dogman turned. It shifted before our eyes. The spindly, grasping man became a large, long, horizontal-presenting body, maybe six feet in length as it lumbered away from our fire.

     I know what my children and their cousins and I saw was exactly what my friends and I faced close to thirty-some years ago.

     Later in the month, I contacted Jean on Facebook and I was informed that Pat had died in Afghanistan. When I talked about old times and what happened the last time we took a walk together, Jean swore what we saw was a dogman, refusing to believe what else I wanted to say. Unsatisfied, I contacted the old guard. He was still alive. As it turns out, he’d co-authored a book about Michigan’s Dogman (which is how I located and identified him). He also confirmed Jean’s words, and said what we saw was not what I now speculated the brute to be.

     You see, that night around the fire, as the brown creature turned to amble off, my son told me something that changed my perspective. “Mom, what you saw was a moose.” He repeated his words, “A MOOSE!”

#Odawa #MichiganLore #Dogman #MichiganDogman

 

(This post is a compilation of witness narratives from encounters with the Michigan Dogman. At the end, my theory of the creature actually being a moose is revealed. Royalty free images have been used purely for demonstrational purposes.)