You Should Have Been With Us

In the middle of his poem “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman addresses the reader writing, “You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.”

 

I remember reading that line when I was 24 or so, and it has stayed with me and always struck me that Whitman truly meant it:

 

“ The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,

   I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;   

   You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.”

 

    You can feel Whitman’s joy. Simple joy, really. This gathering. This clam chowder. And his heart so swollen with human empathy that he feels his good time and thinks, “Everyone should be feeling this right now.” Indeed, we probably should have been with him that day round the chowder-kettle.

 

    It might have refueled us a bit.

 

    My fly fishing itch has not waned. Yesterday, I decided that I was going to drive to my favorite river, The Pigeon, even though it is two hours north of where I live. I was able to convince my good friend, Josh Maday, to go with me. Although he’s heard me talk about the river many times, he’s never been.

 

    He’d been cooped up quarantining for too long. I wanted the river for him.

    I was glad for the company too. Many times as I’ve been fishing, I’ve thought, “Josh would really like this.” He doesn’t fly fish himself (not yet), but he walked with me in the river—him with a walking stick and me with a fly rod.

 

    We arrived in Michigan’s Pigeon River State Forest around 6 o’clock… perfect timing for the evening fish. Josh wore my waders and wader boots, and I decided that I would wear an older pair of shoes and swim trunks.

 

    We walked up a two-track road, veered off onto a footpath, and then down a steep hill to the meadow where The Pigeon winds through. Arriving in the meadow we were greeted by the primordial squawk and holler of two Sand Hills Cranes trying, we guessed, to lure us away from their nesting area. We gave the birds a wide berth, and they eventually settled down.

 

    As we followed deer paths through the meadow, Josh commented on the aroma of the grasses. We couldn’t quite put our finger on how to describe it. It was a smell one would guess was on God’s fingers as he called forth the world in Genesis. 

    It was new and fresh.

 

    Finding words for these experiences has been hard. I guess you should have been with us that day round the meadow.

 

    After twenty minutes of walking, we finally entered the river. The fish. The river. The overcast sky… it was all so generous. By my fifth cast, I’d already caught an 8 and ½ inch brook trout. Not a keeper, but a good sign.

 

    And, it was a good sign. Several bends later, I cast to a dark hole that eddies in the embrace of a hollowed out sandbank. What would turn out to be an 11 and ½ inch rainbow trout (also called a speckled trout) rose up to my Parachute Adams (called such because of the white material tied into a “parachute” on its back, which makes it really easy to keep track of your fly on the water).

 

The rainbow swallowed my fly out of a bubbling scum line and gave me a good fight. As my line sliced back and forth through the water, I kept muttering (for Josh’s edification), “I’m probably going to lose it.” I had no idea how well the fish was hooked.

 

    I was preparing him (and myself) for disappointment.

 

    But it was not to be a day for disappointments. With the help of Josh’s net work, I landed the fish. My fly was deep in its mouth. These fish were hungry… perhaps even gorging for the fall. I cleaned the fish right on the river bank. Taking it out, I handed its stomach to Josh. “Feel how hard that stomach is. This thing has been gorging itself.”

 

    We left the stomach and the rest of the entrails on the bank for raccoons to eat.

 

    As we continued down the river, we started seeing Great Blue Herons. Maybe it was the same bird. Maybe it was many birds.

 

    Not long after, a brook trout rose to my fly. It pulled it down deep and then started swimming upstream hard against the bottom. I suspect it was looking for a log to tangle my line around and hopefully wrench the hook from its mouth.

 

    I said, “This one’s a keeper too,” and then felt Josh, as though we were on some symbiotic level, pull my net from the back of my vest.

 

    That fish, too, we landed. And, it too had spent its fair share of time round that proverbial chowder kettle because its stomach was also hard with everything it was trying to digest.

 

    We fished the rest of the bends, checked out some promising holes downstream, and then by 9:30 were back in the car on our way home.

 

    We had two keepers. The overcast sky that threatened rain with its darkness never did open up into showers. And though I had feared that the river might be too cold to fish in swim trunks, the experience proved otherwise. Even the sandwiches we ate from the gas station deli seemed to have been made with extra care. I bought some ziplock bags, and the cashier allowed me to fill them with ice so we could keep the fish cool as we drove south.

 

    Unlike a lot of recent days over the last five months, this was a truly good one.

 

    You should have been with us.

 

    I want a day like that for you.

If you enjoyed this, please consider purchasing a copy of my new book of short stories, The Neighborhood Division.

From the Publisher (preferred): here

From Amazon: here

A review of the book: here

Midland Daily News and Upcoming Zoom Reading

The Midland Daily News did an nice article about my upcoming Zoom reading with Ken Meisel.

You can learn more by reading the article. I just really got a kick out of the fact that they referred to me as "Midland's Vande Zande"... like, I've arrived. The city has claimed me as an adoptive son!

Read the article: here

Fly Fishing Through the Pandemic

It’s about having something that isn’t tainted, I guess.

It's probably not that.

I don't know what it is.

 

I’ve really been trying to figure out this compulsion I have to fly fish lately. I mean, I’ve always enjoyed it, but something is pulling my thoughts toward a river and a rod almost every day.

It's a moving away from more than a moving towards.

 

There’s a lot I can’t really explain, and I knew I’d feel this way when I tried to write about it. I feel this lump of emotion that I keep trying to swallow. It’s not bad really… just melancholy mixed with renewed wonder, I suppose.

 

But, like anything stuck in your throat… it reminds you that you’re alive.

You live raw... an exposed electrical current.

 

I’ve surfaced from the earliest defeatism of quarantine. I’ve adjusted. This is the new normal as they say: melancholy and renewed wonder.

A good deal of fear too.

 

I’m sustaining the wonder by fly fishing. It’s an activity wholly unaffected by Covid-19 concerns. I think that’s its draw for me. At least, I think.

 

I think the former – the melancholy – is largely from me turning 50. Everywhere I go, I can feel younger versions of myself there. I keep wanting to tell them, “Enjoy it more.”

 

Where I live in Midland, MI, I’m over two hours away from the rivers I really enjoy fishing: The Pigeon River and The Black River. Still, the Tobacco River and the Cedar River aren’t far from my house… both trout streams, but much smaller than what I’m used to.

 

The guy who owns the nearby convenience store -- Sids (named after his father) -- lives near these rivers. He had me bring a map to his store (a real map!) and then, with a pencil, he marked several places where I could try to fish.

 

I love maps. Love pushing my finger along a route. Something about a map and fishing carries so much more promise than simply plugging an address into my phone.

 

About four o’clock, I drove the forty minutes to the nearest pencil mark on the map. It took me off blacktop and down a dirt road. I knew where the river would be immediately because there was already a truck parked there. An older guy was sitting on the tailgate of his truck. He laughed when I asked about fly fishing this stretch, which turned out to be the Middle Branch of the Tobacco River.

 

“Nah,” he said through a mouth half filled with teeth. He went back to fumbling his nicotine-stained fingers over his reel. “Line is messed up… can’t get it to wind back in.”

 

I left him to his reel and walked up to the bridge. I looked downstream and then up. His “nah” was absolutely correct. The river wasn’t fishable, at least not with a fly rod. Some current moved through the middle and babbled into the culvert under the road, but overall the river was still, almost stagnant looking. The bottom was choked with huge logs. Wading it would have come closer to parkour.

 

I walked back to the man and said, “That’s not a trout stream. That’s a long mud puddle.”

 

He wasn’t having it. His tongue slid over jagged, busted off teeth as he spoke. “That? That’s a good stream. Got brown trout in there would rip that fly rod right out your hand.” He held his line and waved it at me. “This is 16-pound test. They bust this off on me sometimes. Big boys in there under the logs.” He looked up at me and squinted. “You want room to fly fish, you go to the Tobacco’s South Branch.”

 

“That’s wide enough?”

 

He nodded. “Yeah, but no trout in there.” He didn’t smile ironically, but just went back to fumbling with his reel like it was a poor man’s Rubik’s Cube.

 

I was done with the Tobacco and the Cedar. I just wanted to get on a river and fish. I just wanted the possibility of trout. I didn’t want to chase around at possibilities, just to be disappointed by the site under each bridge I came to.

 

Really, I just wanted to be fly fishing. I wanted to be in a river up to my thighs. I wanted, more than anything, to be some place where Covid-19 doesn’t play a part whatsoever.

At least I think that’s what I wanted. Maybe I’m having trouble naming what it is itching just beneath my surface. Like instead of restless leg syndrome, I have restless soul syndrome.

I know this wasn't just about the virus. There's something I'm not saying.

 

Uncharacteristically, I just started driving north… towards what would be the South Branch of Michigan’s Au Sable River, a big stretch of water I've fished many times. For me, where the Tobacco and Cedar are too small, the South Branch is too big.

Still, it's somewhat close to home.

 

Along the way, I stopped at a gas station. I masked up. I filled up. I bought a diet Coke, a roast beef sandwich, and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

 

It was really just about the perfect meal.

 

Around 6:30, I arrived at a pullout off of the dirt road that had wound me through the Mason Tract. I’ve written about the Mason Tract before. Here’s the quick and dirty story of George Mason… auto exec turned conservationist:

 

Following his death it was disclosed that Mason, a former president of Ducks Unlimited, had left a gift to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources consisting of 1,500 acres (6.1 km²) land with 14 miles (23 km) of shoreline along the Au Sable River. The gift was contingent that the area be used as a permanent game preserve, that no part shall ever be sold by the state, and that no camping be allowed in the area for 25 years. The Michigan DNR has continued to uphold the no camping restriction within the Mason tract.^[12] In accordance with Mason's wishes, the tract remains free of all development with the exception of a simple log chapel that was constructed on the property by the Mason family in 1960.^[13]

 

A story like that almost gives one hope for capitalism. George Mason sees that capitalism treated him well, recognizes that it is a fickle goddess, and so balances out some of the world’s inequalities by letting others benefit in perpetuity from his good fortune.

 

The world could use some more George Masons.

There's a sign at the Mason Tract:

 

I’m not certain if it’s a new policy, but I noticed that the DNR hasn’t been keeping up with the two-track trails that lead to the river. Maybe they are trying to make fishermen work a little harder. Maybe they are striving for the untainted that Mason wanted for his bequeathed tract.

 

Whatever it is—deliberate or budget-related—the two-track roads are impassable with all of the downed trees over them.

 

With so many trees down, I had to walk what amounted to two football fields to get to the river.

 

Nothing exciting follows. I had strikes, but no fish. I walked down the river, careful not to turn my ankle on its rock-covered bottom. I felt the churn of a current that’s been there for thousands of years working around my legs. A great blue heron stayed some thirty feet ahead of me as I worked my way downstream. It would land among branches and then look back at me. When I got to where it determined I was too close, it lifted its seemingly prehistoric wings and flew farther downstream. It did this several times until eventually flying away altogether.

 

The fish were active, but more angry than hungry. They rose to my fly to snap at it, but never with enough commitment for me to set the hook.

 

As the night wore on, I decided I didn’t want to walk back to the car in full dark. It had been difficult enough to navigate my way around the fallen trees without trying to do it following the halo of my headlamp.

Plus, coyote yowl is unsettling.

 

Driving home, I didn’t want to leave the “untainted”… I wanted to continue to explore the renewed sense of wonder I have. In the past, I never would have taken pictures of flowers along the river bank. This trip, I did.

 

 

It’s either I’m trying to hold onto something that feels like it’s fading away, or I’m simply recognizing the subtle beauty of my surroundings.

 

I don’t know which drives the impulse (and is likely a mix of both)

 

It was the same impulse that made me recall the book, Blue Highways, as I drove. On a map, smaller state highways are often in blue. The premise of the book was that we miss too much racing down the country’s interstates, and we would all be better served by spending more time on blue highways… using lesser-known roads to arrive to our destination.

 

To quote Doobie, the cab driver from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: “Nothing to see on the interstate, but interstate.”

 

And so, even with my phone insisting for miles that I make a u-turn back toward I-75, I instead followed the blue highways of F-97 and M-18 west and south. 

What a richness seeing all of the little houses lit along the road under the bruise-blue, full-moon sky. The roads felt lived in and had character, the way someone describes an old house as having character.

 

This too—with the radio off—was all part of the trip into the untainted. I could do this. I could simply enjoy driving at night along an unfamiliar way. It was visceral in contrast to the interstate, which is soulless. All that fast-paced living. All the efficiency. It's some of why we are where we are, I think.

I guess I was just trying to feel okay.

 

At one point, I stopped and took a picture of the moon. It didn’t turn out that well (looked more like the sun after my phone’s camera tried to compensate for exposure), but it was the act. I’m not a stopper. I’m not a “I need to get a picture of that” kind of person. I’ve always been more efficient than whimsical, and yet here I was taking a route home that would take 40 minutes longer than the freeway.

 

Here I was taking a picture of the moon.

 

The picture. These words. None of it can capture what I felt stopping in the middle of nowhere on a highway I didn’t know and opening my door to step out into the darkness.

I wanted to be in the darkness and unafraid.

 

I don’t know that what I felt could ever be replicated... not by me.

 

I knew I wouldn’t be able to write about it. I knew the words wouldn’t live up to the feelings of last night. I knew the words would fail. But, I had to try.

 

It’s almost going on two years since I’ve spoken to my son. I guess that’s a haunting of sorts underneath everything I’m feeling, too.

It's all so hard. It's all so tragically beautiful.

If you enjoyed this, please consider purchasing a copy of my new book of short stories, The Neighborhood Division.

From the Publisher (preferred): here

From Amazon: here

A review of the book: here

Upcoming Zoom Reading with Poet Ken Meisel

Poet Theodore Roethke was born in Saginaw, MI... about 20 minutes from where I live in Midland, MI. Roethke's father and uncle ran a floral/greenhouse business together, and the homes they ran the business from still stand side-by-side on Gratiot Ave. in Saginaw. The flowers and the greenhouses and the natural living afforded by their lifestyle proved to be rich material for Roethke's poetry.

The white house is where Roethke was raised. The fieldstone house next to it was where the uncle lived.

Currently, because of structural issues, The Friends of Roethke are having a "Save the Stone House" campaign. They hope to restore the stone house so it can lighten traffic on the Roethke Museum itself. They hope one day the stone house will host visiting writers, have classrooms for literary arts for Saginaw children, and also advocate for mental health issues (something Roethke struggled with his entire life)

Here's a promotional video I made regarding The Stone House that features poet Tess Gallagher (widow of Raymond Carver and a former Roethke student) and also Annie Ransford, President of The Friends of Roethke: here

Roethke has long since passed away (1963), but his home and property are maintained as a literary museum by The Friends of Roethke... an organization dedicated to preserving Roethke's legacy and advancing the literary arts in Mid-Michigan.

I became more deeply acquainted with The Friends of Roethke when I was writing my novel, American Poet (winner of a 2012 Michigan Notable Book Award). It tells the fictional story of Denver Hoptner who, after college, returns to Saginaw to live with his father, as his degree in poetry writing affords him no real opportunity for work. Denver becomes involved in trying to save the Roethke Home after a fictional fire in the museum's attic.

Through my friendship with the FOTR (Fellowship of the Roethke?), I was able to spend a night in the Roethke Home and even write on the second floor's screened in porch (where Roethke sometimes wrote)

Me writing...

More about the novel, American Poet: here

Obviously, Covid-19 has made it difficult for many arts-based companies and organizations to stay above water and to continue with their missions. Bookstores are struggling, film festivals are struggling and, yes, the Roethke Home Museum is struggling. Normally, throughout the summer, they host literary picnics to help bring awareness to the Roethke Home Museum. That hasn't been possible this summer. What they decided to do was to try some Zoom readings. 

Yours truly and poet Ken Meisel were asked to present at one of the Zoom readings.

I miss the idea of having a local book release right in the living room of the Roethke House, but I'm also digging the idea of a Zoom reading (where anyone in the world could come to the reading if they wish)

So, here are the details. It looks like you register in advance, and then they send the Zoom info.

This information is directly from The Friends of Theodore Roethke:

Tuesday, August 11, 7:00pm – Ken Meisel and Jeff Vande Zande. 

Ken Meisel will read from his most recent book, Our Common Souls: New & Selected Poems of Detroit. He is a poet and psychotherapist, a 2012 Kresge Arts Literary Fellow, a Pushcart Prize nominee and author of eight books of poetry. He has been published in over 100 different magazines, and he was a featured artist in the 2019 film, Detroit: Tough Luck Stories. 

Jeff Vande Zande will read from his new collection of short stories called The Neighborhood Division. Author Laura Hulthen Thomas had this to say: "Two shots realism, one shot speculative, a dash of horror-- the genre-bending stories in Jeff Vande Zande’s The Neighborhood Division and Other Stories shows us what happens when suburbia takes on a rebellious, sometimes eerie and always dangerous, life of its own. Vande Zande’s earnest, well-meaning characters are fated to discover that the seemingly benevolent perks of privilege they’ve come to rely upon are in fact the greatest threat to their security. From a family trapped in their own basement by an aggressive home renovation to a tenant’s crusade to save his building from collapsing under the load of his neighbors’ excessive possessions, these stories reveal the unexpected joys and perils of taking a closer look at our most familiar neighborhoods."

RSVP: www.friendsofroethke.org/blog 

Please register beforehand. A $5 donation to FOTR is requested, as we continue to raise money to save the Stone House. However, we recognize that finances are tight these days for many reasons, so the donation is not required. If you do not have a Paypal account, or if the $5 is a hardship right now, please email us directly, info@friendsofroethke.org, and we will manually register you. 

A Zoom link will be provided to all registrants before the start of the event.

Surface and Deeper Conflict in Fiction

For my short story students, I often start with the idea that a story needs conflict.

Not all, but most fiction that we read is driven by conflict of some sort. A character (or characters) want something, and something stands in the way. Desire unfulfilled…that’s conflict. 

Then, too (and this is important)… something should be at risk. The character stands to lose something—their life, their significant other—so what’s at risk of being lost is significant. It's a question to think about: If the protagonist tackles the conflict poorly, what do they stand to lose?

 

Your story should contain conflict and risk.

 

Let’s come back to conflict, though. 

In a story, the character will often experience two levels of conflict. There is the surface conflict (which often appears fairly quickly), and there is the deeper conflict (which often reveals itself over the course of the story and is tied to character development). The surface conflict comes from outside the character (externally), while the deeper conflict is from within the fabric of themselves (internally). In the deeper conflict, the character is always struggling with or against some aspect of herself.

 

Deeper conflict comes from within.

 

The two conflicts often play off of each other too… the surface situation is often a way for the character to get at their deeper conflict.

 

I think all of this makes more sense when considering an actual short story. Let’s think about Raymond Carver’s short story, “Cathedral.”

 

If you haven’t and you wish to, you can read it: here

 

Even if you don't read the whole thing, just read the first couple sentences. The surface conflict (the visitor) is made plain. He does not want this guy coming to his house!

The surface conflict is made clear pretty quickly (this works with the idea of in medias res... starting a story by dropping the reader into the "middle" of things). An old friend of the wife’s is coming to visit, and the husband doesn’t want him to. It especially bothers the husband that her old friend is blind. 

One also discovers fairly quickly that the marriage is not in very good shape. It seems like they are on the brink of divorce.

 

The story has a deeper conflict, too. The husband’s deeper conflict is with himself, and it’s spilling out into other aspects of his life, including his marriage. He’s a pessimistic person. He has no real faith or beliefs, and he is unable to commit himself to anything. His internal defeat is showing itself in his nightly drinking, his nightly weed smoking, and in his isolation.

 

Despite his gallows humor throughout the telling of the story, he is a broken man in an existential despair. He is among Thoreau’s “mass of men."

 

It is within the deeper conflict that the true risk arises. The main character in “Cathedral” stands to lose just about everything… his wife, his only connection to other people.

 

In most stories, the risk involved arises from the deeper conflict in the character. The surface conflict of “Cathedral” – the visiting blind man – will eventually end. But, the main character’s wallowing and inertia are ongoing and are putting him at true risk of continuing to lead a life of “quiet desperation.”

 

Notice, though, that the surface conflict and the deeper conflict run parallel in the story. It is the circumstances and immediacy of the surface conflict that draws out the main character’s unaddressed deeper conflict. Once his wife falls asleep, the husband is much more honest with their blind visitor. He admits to being unable to describe a cathedral, unable to have faith or find value in his job beyond a paycheck… he admits that, overall, “…it’s hard, you know…” Life is hard. Much easier to just give up.

 

The main character, as a result of his blind visitor, inadvertently speaks his despair into the room. The circumstances of the surface conflict (the visitor) draw out the deeper conflict (the existential defeatism).

 

And then, the two conflicts have their convergence. Robert, the blind visitor, suggests that they could draw a cathedral together. The husband will draw, and Robert will let his hands ride atop the husband’s so he can “see” the cathedral as its drawn.

 

It becomes an act much more about the main character, not Robert, "seeing" that there is still joy and mystery in life if one takes the risk of committing to a course of action, even while fighting doubts. The husband could have simply said, “No, I can’t draw a cathedral.” But, he commits himself to the act. He draws. He lets the blind man’s hands ride his own. It might be brief, but he opens himself to the mysteries and beauties of life. He admits, "It was like nothing else in my life up to now." 

And, if he can do it once, he can do it again.

 

The satisfaction in “Cathedral” becomes the exploration of the deeper conflict, as triggered by the circumstances of the surface conflict. The conflict starts from outside the main character (Robert’s visit), but – like with most stories – it ends up being an inward journey into deeper territory

 

This thinking about the various levels of conflict, I often apply to my teaching of short stories, but it’s applicable to most fiction. The deeper conflict is connected to character arc and how your character changes over the course of the work. To understand your character’s deeper conflict, you have to truly understand your character. The deeper conflict is a result of your character’s history and personality.

 

But, the surface conflict triggers the story.

 

As you look at the short story you are working on (or any work of fiction)… can you name the external, surface conflict? How about the deeper conflict. Understanding those conflicts and how they eventually can converge can help lead you towards a satisfying ending.

If you find my blog posts instructive, please consider purchasing a copy of my new gothic horror novel, The Dance of Rotten Sticks.

From Amazon: here