WRITING LAD, LLC

THE CLIFF HOUSE

By William Ladewig

A smile crossed my face. It had been a long time since I had smiled. The sound of the dinner bell was coming through the sunroof of my car as if it knew that I was on the approaching road. It was calling me back to this place that I loved so. Back to the green, canopied walls, the slate stone walks and the beckoning wooden back chairs. Back to where I had begun my career those thirty years ago.

Charlie had still been alive then. That was before the cancer had stripped him of his dignity. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't the cancer that did that. It was the chemo. Sitting in the chair, a frail old man at sixty. My Charlie, the life of every party with his shock of white hair, manly girth and ready smile. How I loved that man. I miss him. Maybe if we would have had children. But you can't look back.

The car lot was still unbearably small for the school. There's a spot. I wonder if the Avalon will get in there without scratching the sides. Thirty years ago, I jumped out of my car and almost flew. I was so excited to be studying and actually writing. Professor James at the University said that I had talent but unless I tried, I would never know how good I could be. Now they were inviting me back to talk about what made my career special. Could I tell them it was because I tried?

"Mrs. Mitchell, Calle Mitchell? I'm Eric. They sent me up here to see if you had made it and if I could be any help," asked a young man, younger than my books as he approached my car.

"Call me Calle, Eric, and yes, I could use some help. I'm not as strong as I used to be and I could definitely use some," as I opened the trunk and pulled out my traveling bag and pointed to the box of books. "See if you can handle them."

We went down the sawdust trail up to the start of the slate walks. It was like time standing still. There was the old lodge, Martha's house off to the side...the ancient bell still looking regal as if it could hurry anyone it wanted to by the sound of its peal.

"Everyone is looking forward to your visit, Mrs. Mitchell. You're a legend at The Clearing!"

"Thank you, Eric, but being a legend is nothing more than outliving your peers. Survival is an ability in itself."

We walked to the lodge, and Eric set the bag in front and helped me up the stairs. They seemed to have gotten higher over the years.

"Hello, I'm Calle Mitchell. Is this where I check in?" I asked of the dark haired young lady sitting at a desk covered with papers containing lists.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Mitchell. I have you down for Room 12. We gave you a private room. I hope that it will be okay. If we can do anything for you, let us know," as she handed me a series of handouts. "Oh, and Norm told us to tell you that he would be stopping over later on to welcome you and to talk about what you’re going to teach."

Oh, I guess 73 is not that old if you're in good health but when you're not, it seems more like 102. I tried the bed and had to admit that it had the early ones beat by a mile. God, were they hard, but they felt so good when we went to sleep. Jackie Baker, Paul Anderson, Maggie, oh what was her name, Christman, that's it. God, they were writers. We used to stay up half the night talking about Hemingway, Faulkner and the new guy, Capote. What happened to all that fun?

I heard the knock on the door and slowly got up to answer it.

"Are you decent?" came from the other side, and there stood Norm. He had aged. He was still a good-looking man, but there was white in the hair and the belt had been let out a few notches since the last time that we had seen each other.

"Hi, Norm. Come on in. And no, I'm not decent. Never was, and hope I never will be. Bring me a drink?" As I pulled myself over to the bed and sat down.

"You look great, Calle. I heard that you've been a little bit under the weather, but you look great," said Norm as he walked in and draped his blue denim coat over the chair and sat down.

"Oh fiddlesticks! You know perfectly well that I look horrible but keep lying, you rascal. I may have cancer, but I still like a little BS."

"Same Calle. You still are one of the great ones. Thanks for coming. I don't think a week at The Clearing featuring Wisconsin Women of Literature would have been complete without you. I’ve talked to the students, and they are getting ready to grill you. We've got some sharp students, and I think that they'll be able to keep you on your toes."

"Well, I hope that they aren't too sharp. Since Charlie died, I 've gotten a little slower. The old brain doesn’t work like it did before. How are you doing?'

It seemed like old times as we rehashed the last few years, the friends we knew, the ones who died. The good times at The Clearing and the changes that had been made. It's bad when you have more fun looking back than looking forward.

"Listen, Norm. I do have one wish for this week. I know that you want to have me talk on Thursday and I will, but I want you to arrange that I get to stay in the Cliff House that night.”

"Sure Calle, but can you make it down those stairs and up?" asked Norm as if to imply that I couldn't do it.

"Charlie and I spent one whole night there, and the reason that I came up was to remember it one more time. So, Norm, be a dear and make arrangements for it, okay?"

They sandwiched me between the biographer and the current popular romance writer, as if I was to be the crossover from reality to the surreal.

"Our next guest needs no introduction. She is the Grand Dame of Wisconsin fiction, having published over thirty books in the last thirty years and has been the publisher of two national magazines. Please welcome Calle Mitchell."

I stood up and to my surprise, realized that half the class were men. "Good evening, I'm glad to see that we have some of the other gender in the audience tonight. We're going to be discussing some heavy items, and we can use them for some lifting." Okay, so I'm still a feminist at heart even if the world has changed.

Two hours later I was exhausted and exhilarated. There was something about people looking to you for answers which makes your juices flow. I was ready to write another book, to take on the world, or maybe even to take the garbage out when I got home.

The walk through the woods to the Cliff House was over in the flash of an eye. Norm and two of the heavy lifters were brought to ensure that I didn't splatter the beach below. One in front and one behind lowered me down the broken edges, and provided the hold I needed for safety. Standing on the ledge, a quarter of the way down the cliff, it stood in solitude with its single room carved in the rock, with the rough-hewed fireplace and the single bed against the wall. A sanctuary from life and a place to look into your soul.

"Now Calle, are you sure that you'll be all right? Do you need anything? Okay, but just to be on the safe side, I'm going to leave this portable phone. If you need me, just press the 1. It's preset. I'm going to be at the center tonight, and I'll be here in a minute if you need anything," Norm droned on as he treated me like his own mother.

"Go on with you, and let me get ready. Just make sure that there's a good breakfast in the morning."

They left me there. In the little room in the rock. The place where Charlie and I had made love so many years ago. We were so happy here.

There's a small landing outside the room, and from there the view up the coast runs for miles. I shut the door behind me and looked into the dark, illuminated only by the stars and my thoughts.

"How I miss you so, Charlie. I'll be there shortly, Charlie! I'm taking one more step.”

“MY DAD NEVER WALKS AWAY FROM . . .”

By William Ladewig

My dad never walks away from the pulpit without feeling that he has done God’s work. He’s 72 this year, and he still has the same ramrod walk from the pulpit that I remember when I was first sitting in the pew with Mom and my sister. We listened so attentively, then, to the hell that was waiting for us if we didn’t change our sinful ways and return to the truth of the Bible. Life seemed so very simple for Dad. It was either right, or it was wrong.

Dad still reminds the older parishioners of Billy Graham as he begins his homilies with a Bible verse, memorized those many years ago as he struggled through the rigors of the seminary life. Dad still has the shock of white hair and a reddish complexion that made him look like the friendly TV anchorman on the late night TV show. I think it was his appearance more than anything else that gave his parishioners such faith in him. If Dad spoke, it was like Moses on the Mount. The faithful would sit in a trance, determined that they would go away and sin no more.

“Yes,” Pastor Fisher, “You’re absolutely right. I don’t understand why the TV shows have to be so violent. Gun Smoke may be an interesting show but so much violence!” was a typical statement from an awestruck parishioner.

Simple. Life was so simple then. I did what I was told, right or wrong. School was an extension of home. The minister’s son who always did the right thing. Why did I always do the right thing? Why? Because it was right. The right way was always so easy because the path was wide and clear and edged with right and wrong. If I ever thought to deviate, there was always Dad’s booming voice reminding me of the one true way, the right way.

“Pastor Fisher, I’m going outside for a few minutes. I can’t take this. I don’t believe that this is happening.”

I looked up at Margaret’s face, staring down at me with an anger shining along the grim lines of her mouth. My mind was befuddled by thoughts of long ago and how my father would have handled this problem, when I replied, “Okay, Margaret, I’ll come out and get you when the vote comes up.”

We had been here for over five hours at the auditorium, 246 representatives of over 145 congregations representing over 50,000 Christians.

The morning caucus had started with basic housekeeping and had appeared to be a typical annual meeting, but then the resolution was presented from the downtown congregation. A church oriented towards the young and the affluent urban dwellers. A church devoid of understanding of what it was like to have an older congregation that was losing its anchor on life as the mores of society wafted on the winds of change. A life that had a president who would have been horsewhipped in their time for his complete lack of moral turpitude, but now was riding a crest of popularity. How could this urban church know what this resolution was going to do to the faiths and beliefs of the solid Christians.

The resolution was simple enough, “The church recognizes and affirms the blessings of such committed same-gender relationships by pastors of this synod after counseling of the couples seeking such a blessing.” Was this to be the first chink in the moral imperative? Where would it lead

?

The bishop of the synod was up on the podium saying, “This endorsement falls far short of backing marriages for gay couples. The church reserves this for unions between men and women. This does not violate church law.”

I look into my mind, and see my father listening to these words and replying in his booming voice, “Baloney! Complete balderdash! It’s like a little bit pregnant. It can’t be done. You can either allow it or you outlaw it, and the Bible outlaws it, and the church should follow the Bible.”

“Well, it’s here!” Brian spoke up.

Brian was the third delegate from our congregation. Brian is a tall, slender, athletically built young man of 35 who works as a florist. He and his partner have been together for eight years and have been active in the congregation for the last five. No two individuals have done any more to minister to the sick and provide succor to the needy. Their relationship was one of true love between two consenting adults. They were a beacon to all of the married people in the congregation to how couples should live. Yet, it wasn’t Christian.

“Well, Pastor, they’re going to call the roll. Have you decided how you’re going to vote? I know where Margaret is. Shall I go get her?”

“Yes, Brian, please do. We are all in this together,” I said, “fully realizing that I was soon going to have to hurt one of them very deeply.

The bishop called for a vote. It quickly became apparent that it was the urban area congregations versus the rural areas. It was necessary for the vote to be two-thirds, or 164 votes to pass the resolution, and it quickly was apparent that there was considerable support for the resolution.

“Our Redeemer Church.”

Brian quickly stood up and stated, “One for!”

Margaret struggled to her feet, and looked over at Brian and slowly said, “One against.”

I stood up and said, “I request that I be passed at this time.”

Both Margaret and Brian looked at me like I had let them down. What was I going to do? My father was right. It was not easy to be a pastor. Perhaps, this was a decision that I was not going to have to make.

The vote went on with first one then the other racing ahead. As it went through the roll, it was clear that the vote was going to be close.

The bishop stood and said, “We have concluded the vote. It is 163 for passage of the resolution and 82 against. One voter has passed. The resolution needs one more vote to have the two-thirds majority. Pastor Fisher, the vote is up to you. How do you vote?”

“How do you vote?” rolled from the Sargent-at-arms’ mouth over delegates as they all turned to look towards me.

No, my mind cried, not this! I didn’t plan on it coming down to me. I didn’t want to choose. I didn’t want to have to make this decision.

Brian grabbed my arm. “Pastor Fisher, it’s up to you. You can do something outstanding for us. What a great moment!”

I looked at him with disgust. A great moment for whom? Not for me! I wanted to run to the bathroom and throw up. God, what should I do, I prayed. My father would never have walked away from this moral dilemma. This would have been so simple for him, but then I wasn’t my father. I was me, a product of my father and my mother’s love. A product of a union of a man and a woman, not of two men or two women! And, as I thought of God’s love, a mantle seemed to sweep down over my mind. God’s love! A love big enough to share with all, the poor, the oppressed, the rich, the holy, the sinner and the gay.

I stood up and looked toward the bishop and with a voice that filled the hall I said, “God’s love should be shared with all. I vote for the proposal. God turns his eyes from no one.”

I left the auditorium with Brian beaming with joy. Margaret looked like I had let her down, and I left knowing that my father probably would not have been very proud of me. He would have seen that I had deviated from what the Bible said. But I realized then that although my father would never be proud of me for this moment, that some day, my son would. And as I was as proud of my father for what he stood for, I could only hope that my son would be proud of what I stood for which was the sharing of God’s love.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

By William Ladewig

The bells of Gesu were chiming their wake-up call over the environs of the Menomonee River Valley. The peal of the chimes reverberated under the 13th Street viaduct and woke up the denizens of the “homeless” hotel as the sound bounced off the bridge and ricocheted back upon their sleeping bodies.

The 13th Street Hotel was a euphemism for the shelter given by the bridge to those derelicts of life called the flotsam and jetsam of society that wander the streets.

Present that Sunday morning were three inhabitants of that luckless society. All were men, and all had their own piece of cardboard to lay down upon and papers to cover their tattered and torn accouterments. That was the only protection they had from the cold of the morning. The concrete always held some heat from the day before, and if the wind was blowing just right, a gasp of heat from the power company’s ovens would waft over towards their resting place. All in all, it was a pleasant resting place for a non-working member of society.

“Crazy John” was the oldest of the three, and his hair and beard were flecked with gray. He wore his old Army coat over the remnants of a Lands End jacket that had been discarded long ago because of coffee stains and rips. The remainder of the outfit consisted of an old suit that was acquisitioned from the Salvation Army and a tie that had been popular in the 70's and perhaps discarded, but never forgotten. Crazy was a long way from St. Louis and the family that had forgotten how to love him.

“Jonesey” was a black man who sat on his cardboard mattress, shaking back and forth with spittle running down his jaw. Mental illness jumped out of him like the lice that encrusted his clothes. Life had passed him by, and he had no clue what it held; other than to eat, drink, smoke and forget.

“Indian Joe” was a 30 year old Native American whose name was Frank Running Bear. Long ago, he had been given the moniker, “Indian Joe,” and it had stuck. Alcohol had been the demise of Joe. Since 14 years of age, he had been on his own, neglected by his family, running the streets, one step ahead of the law and getting by doing petty theft and panhandling, recognizing relief from his problems only at the bottom of a 40 ounce bottle consumed every day as regular as clockwork.

“What we got to eat?” yelled Crazy over the roar of the early morning traffic on the bridge overhead.

“Nothing,” said Indian Joe as he reached over to the bottle of Ripple they had consumed the night before. “Oh, damn,” he swore as he threw it down the hill, breaking it into a thousand points of light. George Bush had never thought of that one. “We’re out of wine,” he said angrily. Jonesey threw over a rolled cigarette laced with coke to Crazy. “Take a puff of that, and it’ll straighten you out, man!”

“Nah,” Crazy replied. “I want food. That dumb drug shit screwed me up the last three nights, and I couldn’t get into the Mission in time. It’s been three days since I et, and I need food. You got any money? Hell, if you had any money, you wouldn’t be here.”

Crazy struggled up from his cardboard bedroom, relieved himself from his prior night’s consumption and then shuffled over the path leading to the viaduct. He was a knight errant on his way to find that food he had been dreaming about all night; a warm cup of coffee and two donuts filled with jelly.

There weren’t a lot of options for Crazy that morning as he walked towards Wisconsin Avenue. The only activities were college students out running and the churchgoers at Gesu, rushing towards the 7:30 Mass and hoping that God would forgive them for their mortal sins.

Crazy approached the front of Gesu and started thinking up what story would work today. This was his territory. He was here early, and there was no one yet who had come to give him any competition. He saw a BMW drive up and thought to himself, “Not this one. The rich don’t give money to me.”

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Could you spare a dollar for a homeless man so that I can have some food?” rolled from Crazy’s mouth

“No, why don’t you get a job and work for your money like everyone else!” came back from the man in the Packer jacket standing by the woman as he plodded up the stairs to the church thinking how righteous he was in protecting his spouse.

“Now there goes a good Christian,” murmured Crazy under his breath.

Crazy worked the crowd like a carny out in the boondocks. He wasn’t giving the suckers an even break, and he played it like he had practiced it for the last 20 years. In the span of 15 minutes, before the start of church, he had managed to accumulate a bank roll of $3.65. Life was good.

Crazy started to walk down the street to a local restaurant, the only one in the area that would take people like him. He could taste those donuts in his mind as he struggled down the street with the soles of his shoes flopping angrily on the ground with each step.

A block away from Dunkin’ Donuts, he saw his old running mate, Lincoln. Lincoln and Crazy had been drinking buddies, sharing many an air duct and bottle over the last two years.

“Say, Lincoln, what’s happening, man! Want to share a donut with me?”

“Nah,” Lincoln rumbled. “I’m going over to Phil’s. He’s over in an alley behind 15th Street. He found four bottles of Jim Beam behind Badger Liquor, and he let it be known he’s selling them for three bucks apiece. You want any?”

Crazy stood there and thought, “A donut or Jim Beam?” He might be strange, but crazy he wasn’t. He could always get a donut.