Last Picnic

In honor of Bridge Festival weekend, pulled from my archive


Although it was an oppressively hot day, Anne involuntarily shivered. Coming back to Saranac always had that effect on her. It was her hometown, a small town. So small that there was only a couple of four way stops. Not even a McDonalds. not that she would eat at one if it were there. Now that she was starting veterinary school at Michigan State University, she was one hundred percent vegetarian, not to mention all-organic.
The MacFarlane’s had lived in Saranac since the mid-1800’s, not too long after the first settlers came to this area of Michigan. Life was probably much the same now, new technology, but the same old families, ideas, and conversations. At least that’s how Anne saw it. Nothing new or exciting, just the same two blocks of downtown storefronts surrounded by neighborhoods of houses on three sides with the railroad tracks and The Grand River to the North. There was a post office, grocery store, a couple of gas stations and a bar. For the people who didn’t get their gossip and fill of drama at the bar, there were three churches to pick from.
Her family was more the church sort than the bar sort. Personally, Anne was a C. and E. Christian, Christmas and Easter were enough. Mostly this was to please her mom and an excuse to come home for family events. In a small town, family could be hard to define. When she was twelve, she had a crush on a boy in school that she later found out was a second cousin. That’s the way Saranac was, everyone was related to everyone else either by marriage or blood. God help the newcomer, because it was impossible to track how people were connected in this town, she thought as they walked along the tree lined street toward downtown. The shade felt good as the light breeze dried the sweat on her face and neck.
Anne had come back to town for an unusual event. The old deserted train depot was being moved about a half of a mile down the train tracks so it could be relocated near the center of town. The historical society (or hysterical society, as Anne liked to call them) had bought the old building and was planning on restoring it and opening it for tours. The society was made up of all the local red hatters and other old folks, looking for another excuse to organized themselves and preserve small town life for posterity. They were much like a church group, but without a central positive theme like religion or brotherly love, they often fell into bickering and disagreements. Apparently, they had pulled it together enough to get the community to rally behind this cause.
As they walked, they were joined by other crowds on the sidewalks. It seemed that the whole town was turning out, which would’ve been around two thousand people. Actually it was closer to two hundred. That was plenty enough, a pretty good showing in this heat.
Anne had a personal interest in architecture, and had always thought the depot was a beautiful example of an early 20th century train station. Besides, in high school she used to sneak into it with her friends and get drunk. They went in through loose boards covering the window. The depot was originally built on Depot Street, which was just a small one block loop off of Main Street, with only backyards facing it.
The current depot was built in 1907, after the old depot burned. In its prime, it was a social and economic hub, the crown jewel of this rural farming town. Over the decades, as auto travel became popular, attention was shifted away from the tracks and onto the roads. Since rail travel had declined, this had become an abandoned area, only occupied by dogs and bored teens. Since the last passenger train had stopped in the 1950’s, the depot was nearly forgotten. The grass grew long, and the depot was mostly hidden from view. Trains now pass by, headed for greater destinations.
Even as a teen, Anne had appreciated the woodwork and the style. The depot was painted a brick red, with white trim. It had a curved front to the building, which on the inside had a built in wood bench that followed the curve the whole way. From the outside, it had a black steeped peaked roof, that looked like a witch’s hat. Beyond the waiting room was a ticket counter and an office, followed by a cargo area. The whole building was about 120 feet long, but narrow enough to be transported down the tracks by a moving company.
On the sidewalk, she saw several people she knew, right away. Oh God. Not Joy. There was Joy Potter, a girl she graduated with. She was pushing a double stroller and approaching them on the sidewalk from a side street. Anne would have liked to keep walking, but her mom had already stopped.
“Anne?” she shrieked, “Anne MacFarlane! Where have you been?”
Anne put on her best fake smile and politely replied, “Joy, wow, look at you! Uh, school I guess, haven’t been around much” Her eyes flicked over the two squirming messy toddlers in the stroller. “And the boys, how old are they?”
“The twins will be three in the fall.”
Anne shivered again; glad she had missed that fate. She was quite happy to have escaped small town life and early motherhood. “I’ll bet they are a handful.”
“They keep me busy!” She smiled a little too optimistically and Anne could see the effort that was taking. Just then one of the boys whacked the other in the head with his sippy cup, creating just the diversion Anne needed to escape.
“Well see ya’ around!” Anne called out, sincerely hoping not to. Joy smiled and nodded in response, as she comforted the screaming child.
As her and her mother walked on, she wondered how many more encounters she would have like that today. Probably too many. Her mom was carrying on talking about all of the preparations that the historical society had made in planning the move. There were permits applied for, funds raised by bake sales and raffles, power lines to move, and of course the railroad tracks had to be closed to train traffic. Trains only came through town about twice a week anyway, so that was not a big loss.
As they turned the corner onto Bridge Street, she could see for the first time the full scope of the festival. There were craft booths, games for children, and a large metal hog roaster in front of the bar. People, all whom she knew, were milling around and chatting. T-shirts with the depot on them were a hot seller. Children were running around, playing with their prizes and balloons. There was a food booth, the portable kind from the county fair, which was selling corn dogs and cotton candy. A stage was set up, with the high school band director and his wife singing songs and playing guitars.
Her mom stopped to talk to some church women and Anne patiently waited. She spotted her ex-boyfriend’s mom and quickly looked the other way. She hadn’t seen Keith since the summer after graduation. It was an ugly breakup, and his mom had enjoyed it too much, said that Anne wasn’t the right kind girl. Actually that meant that Anne wasn’t Catholic. How that could possibly matter in a small town like this was beyond her. That ought to trigger some nightmares tonight, she thought as she sighed. At least Keith wasn’t here.
They came the final block toward the train tracks that crossed Bridge Street. Looking left down the tracks, she saw the depot. At 168,000 pounds, it was a surreal sight perched on giant I beams resting on axels. Large trucks were pulling it down the tracks toward the new lot, just off the edge to the North between the tracks and the river. Trees had been cut down on both sides to accommodate the extra machinery. The pace of movement was so slow that it was hard to tell if it was moving at all. It was expected to take seven hours to get it down the tracks, and then it would be moved off and set on a new foundation where it would forever guard the entrance into town. Right next to the sign “Welcome to Saranac, A friendly little village”.
She had always thought it should say “nosey little village”. Many times her parents got phone calls from other villagers to report on her activities. One time she got home to find her mom had gotten a call that Anne had pulled out of the store parking lot too quickly and squealed her tires. It had been no more than ten minutes before her mom had found out. That was what it was like growing up in a small town where everyone knew you, your parents, and everything about you.
This was where the epicenter of the party was. In the middle of it all, there was one picnic table straddling the train tracks. A few people had set their food and drinks on it. Anne blinked and scoffed at the same time. Wow, that seemed stupid. “What idiot would put a picnic table on the train tracks?”
“The same idiots who put the whole depot on the tracks?” Mom smiled her goofy smile. “There aren’t going to be any trains today, I told you.”
No sooner had she said the words, than they heard it. A long low whistle coming from the West. Down the tracks.
As people began to realize what was happening, chaos broke out. There was screaming and running; confusion as people were grabbing their children and running away from the area. The train couldn’t stop, there wasn’t enough track. The train cut through the picnic table like it wasn’t even there. As the broken wood was still flying into the grass, the engine smashed into the curved front end of the red depot. The screech of the breaks and the sound of splintering wood exploded into the air of the perfect summer day.


“So, do you want a corndog or what?” her mom asked, breaking through her daydream.
“Geez mom, sometimes I wonder if you know me at all!” she said shaking her head. “Let’s get cotton candy.”
God, these people are hard up for something to celebrate, she thought as they headed for the food booth. Then she smiled to herself realizing that she was one of them too. As much as she hated to admit it, sometimes it was good to belong.

An Open Letter to My Pastors for Mother's Day

As you know, I am a reproductive medicine healthcare worker, and spend a great deal of time thinking about, talking to, and writing about couples trying to conceive. This time of year especially, there is a lot of focus in the infertility community on the neglected needs of women, and the unintended insensitivity of those around them.
Next Sunday is Mother’s Day, a favorite on the calendar for celebrating the contributions of strong women to their families, communities and their churches. While recognition for mothers is a good and noble thing, there is another group of women in the church who are suffering incredibly on this day – infertile women. While in congregations around the country, mothers will be asked to stand to the applause of their church families, or glorified in romantic sermons about the value of these ladies, the infertile women will be silently dying inside. 1 in 8 couples experience infertility. Some of these represent women who have never had a baby, and others are experiencing secondary infertility, unable to repeat the miracle of carrying a child to term. They are often silent about their pain, avoiding the probing personal questions others ask, or pretending to delay motherhood. They feel alone, like no one understands what they are going through, and that they are somehow not “trying hard enough” or otherwise to blame for the lack of the blessing of children. The church is socially structured around families; husbands and wives with children, often with those not fitting into the mold left very much marginalized.
Mother’s Day is easily the most difficult day of year at church for women struggling to become pregnant, even more so than the parade of adorably dressed children at Easter, or the celebration of pregnancy and childbirth that is Christmas.
Why connect infertility and motherhood; why bring it up? Because it is your duty as clergy to minister to the poor in spirit, those suffering the most. I am not asking you to downplay or deny the magic of motherhood, instead please take a moment of the service that honors mothers to recognize the would-be mothers. Include them in the corporate prayer time, along with the members of the congregation needing healing. Offer them up and pray special blessing over them; they truly need it. Pray for the babies they have lost through miscarriages known only to them and God. Pray for patience in their wait, and for God to reveal Himself in the midst of their trial.
In the book of Samuel, we see Hannah, desperate to become a mother, praying and sobbing in the tabernacle. Eli the priest initially reacts by accusing her of being drunk, misunderstanding her entirely. How many Hannah’s are in your congregation now? Will you misunderstand them too?
Including and recognizing the infertile women in your church, will comfort them and reassure them that the Church is meant as a place for healing and support. Don’t be surprised if your thoughtful mention results in women opening up to you privately about their experiences. What an opportunity to seek out the lost and return their hearts to the fold. Women of faith will likely reach a crisis point with God over this issue, and need help sorting it out. What a significant ministry; a chance to make a big difference to a woman who may not know how to reconcile her pain with God’s grace.
However, she may not be there at all on Sunday, unable to face yet another year of sitting in her pew while what seems like every other woman in the church stands to the applause that honors the mothers. For her sake, and as a personal favor to me, please reach out to her.

A Royal Wedding

Today I attended the wedding of Paul and Sherri, and it was beautiful for a lot of reasons: they looked amazing in their formalwear, it was a relaxed and joyous ceremony, the church was lovely, and it was a second wedding for both of them.

Since I am all girlie about weddings, and get especially excited about the clothes, I have to start there. Sherri’s dress was navy blue with a full ruffly skirt and silver trim on the bodice, paired with a white jacket. It was a stunning choice that looked terrific on her. You’d never guess she’s a mom of three. Paul is active military and wore his new full dress formal, right down to the ceremonial sword, that he later cut the wedding cake with (which by the way was even cooler than it sounds). Their families, making up a large portion of those in attendance, were wearing navy blue and black. Quite an attractive group.

The wedding was held at a small country chapel, which was warm and welcoming, filled with beautiful stained glass windows and wonderful energy. The friendly pastor and church secretary were there to greet the small group on this Thursday afternoon for the ceremony – St. Patrick’s Day, the date chosen as Paul says, because it’s always a party.

More than all else, it was a beautiful wedding because of grace. Today Paul and Sherri came before God and friends, two people putting brokenness behind to enter into a brand new covenant with each other. What an act of faith – to step out into that territory where they’ve been burned before. They knew each other in high school, even dated, but went separate ways then, only to circle back and find each other now, decades later. They each have three children, and have been on similar journeys that are now merging into one big Brady Bunch style happy beginning. What’s not to like about that story?

By grace we are saved through faith, as scripture says. Maybe sometimes we save one another with our love, and the faith to proceed even when we know what the worst outcome looks like because we’ve lived that nightmare before. But we choose to love anyway, with the faith that it will be worth it.

The pastor preached from the Song of Solomon, remarking on the love and adoration that the man and woman had for one another, which is echoed now in this love newly awakened. This is a covenant, she added, not a contract that the couple enters into. It is not a matter of each person getting their deserved end of the bargain, but something different. But what? That’s where she lost me, since I don’t honestly really understand marriage anymore, and can’t quite stretch my mind around the concept. Maybe someday. I was certainly listening and observing closely, trying to figure out this mystery. Like a magic trick that you can watch over and over and never quite solve, right before my eyes I saw the moment of transformation. From two individuals to a single, unified couple. How does God do that?

It was nice to be in a church again. It’s been several months for me, for reasons some of you will understand, others of you will think you understand, and I absolutely do not understand. Funny how you can go to the same church all your life, then one day find yourself on the outside looking in. I’d forgotten that it felt good to sit in a pew, hear a pastor preach, and pray with other people. It felt good to bless the newlywed couple and enjoy the overwhelmingly radiant love and grace. What could be more royal than that?

Virtual Real Estate

Last night he finally caught up with me: the aerial photography salesman. He’d been over a few days before and chatted up the kids (which is a no-no, by the way), and promised to return again. And so he did.

Now, I need to say right up front that I am generally a sucker for pictures of my farm, especially when they are from unique angles, like looking down from a plane. I did, in the past, buy one of these pictures, a 1952 aerial shot showing the farm during it’s operating years, compete with a full array of outbuildings that have now vanished into concrete foundation shapes that haunt the lawn. It was black and white, and they offered to colorize it anyway I liked. Well – I liked it black and white and bought the smaller version in the wooden frame. Yes, these pictures come fully framed and printed in some sort of permanent laminated form so incredibly durable that they can even withstand being directly spattered with bird poo. Not making that up, the salesman actually used that as a selling point. Who could argue with that? So, about ten years ago, I became the owner of a piece of history.

But do I really need a second one? This year’s salesman thinks so. The new shot is a view of my farm from the backside, taken last summer when the corn was in full bloom surrounding the property on three sides. It shows all the satisfying angles of my folk Victorian farm house, along with a pretty view of my flower beds. Proudly producing the large glossy sample of my wonderful 2 and ¾ acre remnant of a farm, he began extolling the features. It was a nice shot, other than all the flaws that make a house a home.

While the yard was nicely mowed and their was no junk cars in the barnyard (anymore), there was a lot of other metal odds and ends lying out that I was in the determined process of purging. My ex-husband's left behind junk. Eighteen years worth of obsessive compulsive trash gathering with a pick up truck doesn’t disappear overnight, and he certainly didn’t take it with him. When I shelled out the big bucks to begin to repair the barn two years ago, it was time to restore it's dignity in and out, so out the junk went. My poor barn, having suffered years and years of neglect by the oppressive ex, finally began down the road of restoration and healing.



Now my beautiful sweet barn, which got one side (and one half of the roof) remade into classic barn red, happens to have three sides of classic weathered white. This looks quite odd in the picture, especially since the colors in these aerial photos always seem to me to be a surreal abstraction of anything found in nature. The red side of the barn is crazy red and is the focal point of the picture. The green of the yard and corn fields is an amazing bright green, like after the largest thunderstorm imaginable has just passed and teased out all the chloroplasts in the plant fibers.

As I begin to notice and comment on the colors and the barn, the salesman hits his stride. Ah – he tells me – it can be fixed! I can easily change the colors in the picture, he brags. As a matter of fact, with the simple request on the order form, I can get the whole barn finished. All red, all done. Not even costing me the 20,000 that the real job would. And I could change the shade of red. And erase the garbage. As he begins to find what he thinks are my objections to the quality of the photo, he starts making more suggestions, which range from other exterior virtual painting of buildings and roofs, to moving buildings, and finally (not kidding here) to adding a spaceship in the corner. As this older gentleman, from the era of door to door sales, proceed to emphatically describe “photoshop” techniques like they were just invented last week, he loses me.

Maybe it is my scientific formation that recoils at the blurring of truth. Or maybe it is my emotional demand for authenticity that can’t tolerate photofakery. I am now four and a half years into this adventure called divorced single mother hell, and I do not believe in short cuts. Or virtual fictions of the way I wish my life looked.


My broken divorced self, having spent all this time doing the hard work of restoring what was destroyed and neglected, can’t accept the false vision of how it should all look. When it does look perfect it will be because it is perfect. Facades are gone in my life – well as much as can be for now – they are shattered. I have little interest in faking things that are not so, even if the fake is hard, durable, and can withstand the spattering of bird poo.

Did I tell him all this? No. Seeing that he wasn’t going to close the deal, he offered to come back at a different time, maybe when my husband was home. Yes, come back then.