Kathleen McQuillan

In late September, I scooped the last batch of chinking material from my wheelbarrow and plopped it onto my aluminum hawk. After weeks of practice, I’d mastered the art of mixing sand, mortar, and Portland cement with the perfect amount of water for chinking between the logs of my aging 24x28 foot castle. I’ve spent the last four summers stripping, sanding, patching, and staining to arrest the effects of 20 years of neglect. Insulating and then filling those spaces between the logs would be the final step in my self-directed restoration project. Anticipation grew as I neared the end. Then, there it was. Done! Mission accomplished.
I set down the hawk, took a step back and just gazed at my work. Experienced advice was hard to find, so I relied primarily on an old homesteader’s journal, some books from the 70s written for greenhorn “back-to-the-landers,” and a few helpful YouTube videos. But for the most part, I inched along, per on-the-job training with a fair amount of trial and error.
I also had my share of unexpected delays. First, there were the robins’ nests. One in June, the other in August. For each, I deferred to this amazing mom intent on guarding her precious broods until they were fully fledged and ready to fly. Then, there were hornets on the rafters and bees in the attic, unrelenting in their defense of their territories. Plenty of threats, but, gratefully, no stings! And of course, hoards of our legendary mosquitoes, gnats, and other biting insects.
The weather delivered almost daily drenching downpours, intermittent thunderstorms, and even some flooding. Dodging bouts of rain became a regular part of my routine. I got pretty adept at swiftly folding up my operation and rushing for shelter. Many folks questioned my sanity throughout those years of toil, but although tempted at times, I couldn’t throw in the towel. My inner coach kept egging me on through dust, sweat, and tears with the old adage, “Slow and steady wins the race.” Those words served me well!
Once finished and my tools put away, I accepted an invitation from a friend to travel to Michigan. Knowing that I too had family in Detroit, she asked if I’d like to drive together to visit our loved ones. I hadn’t traveled since before the pandemic. An adventure away from home seemed like a great idea. But instantly I thought of all the items that appeared on my latest “To Do” list. The house was no longer the priority. Now gardens, my woodpile, and other pre-winter chores loomed. Despite all that, I knew there would be no better time to go. I decided to grab the ring as it went by. Her plan was to leave in three days. I quickly made necessary phone calls, rearranged some obligations, canned veggies like crazy, and packed my suitcase. I was ready to get on the road.
The 900-mile drive was rigorous. But the reunion with my brother, Jason, and his wife Angela, was just as delightful as I’d expected. Their welcome was beyond compare with beaming smiles and big warm hugs. We stayed up late that first night catching up on life’s recent happenings, sharing memories of our childhoods, looking at old photos. Sometimes laughing ’til we cried.
Jay and Angie live in a densely populated suburb bordering Detroit within walking distance of the Ford Motor Company, where Jay had worked for 35 years before retiring. They share their neighborhood with a diverse mix of immigrants from many distant places like Yemen, Syria, Lebanon, and Pakistan just to name a few. The main street is dotted with businesses catering to unique cuisines, dress, and other needs specific to their varied cultures. A walk down the street at dinnertime presented spicy scents wafting out from kitchen windows and backyard barbecues. Children played in their front yards not unlike other American children, except their little babbling voices spoke a variety of different languages.
The destination for our evening stroll was a local Lebanese market where they had the best selection of olives. We browsed narrow aisles with shelves stacked with exotic condiments, sauces, spices, breads, meats and yes, olives! All with labels I couldn’t read. I loved the feeling of being in a foreign country just blocks away— one of the many joys of living in a large American city. No doubt. We are a multicultural society! Historically, Americans have enjoyed the rich cultural contributions brought by each new wave of immigrant groups. Jason’s neighborhood reminded me of that fact.
Headlines often portray a different story of urban life, wracked by failing infrastructure, crime, all sorts of pollution and a persistent cloud of social ills. While there are signs that our cities are struggling, most of urban life goes on between lots of beautiful, caring people living and working together day after day in relative harmony. I left Detroit feeling my faith in humanity bolstered and my appreciation for others living in different ways than I do something special to behold. My visit this time felt much too short, but our time was up. I and my family packed a lot of great moments into those two short days but now I needed to repack my bags and brace myself for the long drive home.
The next morning bright and early, I reconnected with my friend. We jumped onto I-75 and headed north for the trip across the U.P. We crossed the Mackinac Bridge four hours later, soon entering Hiawatha National Forest where Michigan’s hardwoods were, as we’d hoped, in full glory!
For miles and miles, rolling hills highlighted autumn’s splendor. In the middle of this wonderland, the endless canopy of brilliant colors suddenly transported me back in time to the Land of Oz with a chorus of munchkins, surrounding Dorothy, singing some long-forgotten lyrics from my childhood. With my shaky alto voice, I found myself chiming in on the line I’d once sang to my kids in the 80s on this same road in autumn on our way to Grama’s.
“We welcome you to lollipop land!” I think from an irrepressible need to express spontaneous joy!
Mildly embarrassed, with a sheepish smile I glanced over at my driving partner. She kept her eyes on the road. I could see she wasn’t at all impressed and obviously hadn’t found any humor in my silly outburst. Neither of us said a word.
It took us two days, but we made it back to the Iron Range safely and in time to pick up our “Annual Pasty Fest” orders at the Messiah Lutheran Church! We were relieved. We said our good-byes and parted ways.
Plum Creek Road never looked so good. I received an exuberant welcome home with warm hugs, dogs barking, and Goosie honking. My house was cozy and in order. The wind in the trees at sunset and the star-dotted night sky were awesome. Anyone who’s traveled knows the comfort of your own bed. I awoke the next day feeling refreshed. There was my To Do list waiting for me on the kitchen counter where I’d left it.
I glanced at a Cynthia Orick quote that I’d taped on the kitchen cabinet some 30 years prior. I’d read it dozens of times over the years but for some reason, today it resonated. “Nothing is so awesomely unfamiliar as the familiar that discloses itself at the end of a journey.”
It felt like I’d just completed two long journeys, each imbued by challenges and insights greater than I’d anticipated. I feel permanently changed by them and in important ways.
Home now feels just right. My familiar is revealing itself anew after these two recent journeys, With this, I’m feeling the joy.