Keweenaw Hope

By Brian K. Holmes

Johnny Hendricks has begun building a youth mission in the historical district of Hancock, in Michigans upper Peninsula. Along with the characters from Keweenaw Grace, he is joined by a banjo picker from Eastern Kentucky; a beautiful fiddler from Northern Ireland; a ninetyeight and a half year old retired school teacher with a secret, and a quiet track coach with a past.

Thrown together against a back drop of the Keweenaw Peninsula on Lake Superior, this group seeks to help Johnny fulfill his vision in spite of some challenging twists and turns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781973604013

Brian K. Holmes

Once again, Holmes has chosen Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for his third novel, Keweenaw Faith. His intimate knowledge of the copper country around the Keweenaw Peninsula allows him to weave a tale of challenges and ultimate successes. Holmes, a retired auto worker from the Detroit area has visited the Keweenaw for more than forty years, and it shows in his familiarity with the people and the beautiful peninsula.

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Copyright © 2017 Brian K. Holmes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0402-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0401-3 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/2/2017

Contents

Acknowledgment Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

FOR LIZ and KATIE

Well then how to consider the eagle at sunset

The ice on the wind as November draws nigh

The Estivan Pines on a cold snowy evening

A prayer in the Keweenaw sky

Lac Labelle Shores

Brian K. Holmes

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Upper and Lower Peninsulas

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Keweenaw Peninsula

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Portage Lake Lift Bridge

Acknowledgment Page

Anyone who has ever under taken a project like this upon completion realizes that it is just a shout in the darkness hoping that somewhere or sometime someone will trip over it and glean a little something that makes sense or helps lead them towards a relationship with Jesus Christ. More than the product, the journey though not always intense has made me feel a sense of responsibility to help those still walking that empty path.

A special thanks to Arthur Mc Master, poet, professor, and gentle soul who wouldn’t let me quit, and to Steve Nisbet, scholar and confidant who helped tear the manuscript apart time after time.

To my loving wife, children, their spouses and all of my grandchildren, I am blessed every day to walk the walk that our Savior offers with them at my side.

And to you dear readers who shared my enthusiasm for Keweenaw Grace, I am humbled and earnestly pledge to take Johnny Hendricks where ever he leads me in the ensuing books.

BKH

Prologue

A breath of fresh air is wafting over the Keweenaw Peninsula and more specifically the city of Hancock in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

Our protagonist Johnny Hendricks, a youth leader from Grand Rapids, feels a calling to open a youth mission in the heart of Michigan’s Copper Country. The small Finnish/American community is a far cry from the urban life he has known, but challenged and determined to follows his heart and faith in God; he pledges to make a difference in the lives of the teens of the Keweenaw.

Chapter 1

Cars and pick-up trucks were jammed bumper to bumper and backed up past Maple Street, waiting their turn to enter the Johnson Middle School parking lot. Tonight was the monthly bluegrass jam and all the local pickers had shown up to take their shot. Musicians young and old arrived at 6:30, unpacked their instruments, and hurried to one of the many classrooms available to join up with banjo, mandolin, guitar, bass, and fiddle players to match common songs and abilities. Most of the pickers knew each other from past jams, and instinctively headed for a particular room like geese heading south. This wasn’t a casual night out; this was a mission. Local fans as well as down home music aficionados walked the school halls listening to the efforts of the determined pickers playing in each room. It didn’t take long to figure out who were the top dogs or gun slingers as they were called. But it didn’t matter at what level the aspirants played, the listeners were savvy enough to appreciate everyone’s effort. The pressure was on all the entrants to elevate their performance level, and at 9:00pm each group made their way down the hall to the stage in the school gym for the ‘Big Show’. The first couple of hours were in fact an appetizer, kind of a tease to wet the appetites of the fans who had gathered for the main event. Old Tuc Bailey, the ageless white haired M.C. stepped up to the microphone, and the crowd grew quiet in anticipation. Music passed down from hill to hill and generation to generation was the fare, and all were on the edge of their seats. It was like a drag race with strings.

In truth, it didn’t really matter whether it was a middle school gym, a church basement, or a gazebo in the city park, those who knew came to see Del Souter play the banjo. He was a gun slinger extraordinaire and blew folks away on his 5 string banjo. His weapon of choice was the Pre-war Gibson ‘Mastertone’ with the brass tone ring. He’d found it six years earlier while poking around the Qwik Money Pawn Shop down on First Street. It’s doubtful Maynard McCrary had any idea what he had or what it was worth when he pulled it down off the hook and told Del to be careful ‘cause it was heavy. Truth be told, Del didn’t really know what he had either. Old banjos weren’t all that unusual in South Williamson, Kentucky on the West Virginia line. In fact the only thing South Williamson was famous for was the Hatfields and McCoys feud back in the 1800’s. Del knew that if a boy in a small town wanted to make music he usually had to take care of it himself. At the age of sixteen Del had lived his whole life in Pike County, and mostly in the ‘hills and hollers’ as the local folks would say. From the time he was born, his dad Jed had told him stories about his grandpa J.D. and all the traditional stringed mountain instruments the old man had built and played.

Does it come with a case? Del asked the pawn broker suspecting that carrying a big old heavy banjo down the main street of town would draw a lot of attention; something he wasn’t prepared to deal with yet. After all, he wanted to look different not stupid.

For the right price I’ll throw in the case, a few picks, and a book to set you on your way, Maynard said knowing there wasn’t any profit in being the only banjo case owner in town.

Del had worked part time at the Texaco gas station over on Wright Street, and had put away a few bucks for a folly like this.

I think I could come up with $60.00 if you’d throw in a new set of strings.

The soon to be ex banjo owner said he thought he could come up with something, and the deal was struck.

The dusty old case brought from the back room turned out to be a treasure trove. In spite of a broken hinge, the inside was covered with seasoned red velvet, and the pocket had four picks, some used strings for back-ups, and a book by Pete Seeger called ‘How to Play the Five Stringed Banjo’. There was even a sweat-stained old shoulder strap with the name ‘Buddy’ etched into the faded leather. Del could hardly hold it together as he sauntered out of the pawn shop like Hank Williams on his way to a gig.

Chapter 2

Del’s grandpa was a legend in the hills of Appalachia, and was born and raised around Williamson West Virginia, across the Tug Fork River from Kentucky. He was the first J.D. (John David) Souter, and learned at an early age that if you didn’t go down the hole (work in the coal mines), you’d better be good with your mouth or your hands, and the Lord had blessed him with both.

As a young boy growing up during the war, he hunted, built rustic furniture, and made fine mountain dulcimers out of the native wood he harvested from the hills around home. These were all skills that his daddy taught him, and he was a quick learner. The oak and ash hard woods in and around Williamson were easily transformed into basic table and chairs as well as kitchen utensils, while the walnut and cherry were the best materials available for the traditional three string dulcimers. Young J.D. would steam the back and sides together, clamp them to the finger board with a tight grained spruce for the sound board, and hammer in the frets. His dad always said that a good day’s work was a half a dozen fat squirrels for the kettle and maybe a black locust log dragged from the ridges and ravines around the home place.

It wasn’t unusual to find J.D. playing a wedding reception or a dance on Saturday night. His own dulcimer was made by his father out of a good piece of black locust. Folks on the mountain all said that on warm summer evenings you could hear the lilt of those strings ringing through the mist. After a couple of pulls of home brew, picking ‘Cripple Creek’ and ‘Bile Them Cabbage Down’ would set everyone’s toes a-tapping.

J.D. wasn’t a slow thinker, and it didn’t take long to figure out that young Molly White was admiring more than his picking. And it wasn’t by accident that he tried to sit behind the White family at the First Methodist Church service on Sunday mornings. Things progressed in the usual manner, and J.D. met Molly at the altar to begin their lives together. Molly brought to the union a love for the traditional mountain life and all the skills taught to her by her mother and grandmother. But her true gift was a haunting alto singing voice and her knowledge of the many songs learned from neighbors or passed down from her family. They were a perfect match; tall handsome J.D. and beautiful Molly singing ‘Barbara Allen’ or ‘Abide With Me.

Like most folks in the hills, they got by from day to day taking what they could eat or use from the surrounding hills.

Together they raised five children in the little two room house J.D. built. With an artesian spring flowing out front for drinking water, and a well insulated comfort room out back, they were the envy of many up and down the ridge. There were orders for his hand made tables and chairs, and the fancy lap dulcimers. With two sons to hunt, fetch water and gather wood, plus three daughters to cook, sew and clean, life on the ridge was all J.D. and Molly could ever ask for.

It was late in April that Molly began to slow down and tire easily. J.D. sent Jed, the oldest boy, down to town to fetch the doctor. It was almost dark when, ‘Doc’ Pindal plodded up the hill to the cabin. The sound of the raspy coughing from deep down in her lungs told him what he’d suspected, and a cursory inspection of the lumps on her skin confirmed it. He took J.D. out to the front porch and whispered in his ear that it looked like consumption. In the following weeks J.D. stood helplessly by as Molly withered away into the arms of her Lord. All the help and prayers from the good folk around the area were appreciated, but all was in vain. There was no cure for tuberculosis, and in an area where hardship and suffering were a way of life, the mountain folks just prayed and did what they could.

For the first time in his life J.D. sat in the front pew with his family dressed in the best they had. He even borrowed a tie from uncle Delbert. Looking at the coffin he had made gave him some comfort thinking that Molly was being delivered to the gates of heaven in a casket hand crafted by the only man she had ever loved. J.D. and the kids led the family and friends to the grave site under the flowering dogwood. When the first handful of dirt hit the top of the black walnut casket, J.D.’s heart joined Molly’s; and when the last crumb from the last piece of rhubarb pie was swept from the tablecloth at the funeral supper, J.D. buried his face in his hands and was never the same again.

Jed, the oldest of the Souter boys, helped his dad back up the hill. It took all the strength he could muster to help the man he worshiped into the bed J.D. had built for he and Molly some eighteen years before. There was a pall hanging over the Souter home the following weeks as the five kids went about their chores trying to avoid their father. One night after supper, Jed told the family that with the possibility of the war expanding in Viet Nam, he had decided to enlist.

The next morning he went down the hill to Pikeville, Kentucky and joined the Army. He returned home to say good-bye to his brother and sisters, and waited for his marching orders. J.D. spent most of his time sitting on the front porch in one of his white oak rockers. The day the letter came welcoming Jed into the U.S. army, he kissed his sisters good-by, shook his brother’s hand, and promised to send money and write from wherever they sent him. He grabbed his suit case and went out on the front porch. He squeezed his dad’s shoulder but there was no response. He bent down and kissed J.D.’s cheek. Walking down the well worn front steps, he knew he might never see his dad again.

Chapter 3

Jed mustered out of the Army in 1967 and came home to find J.D. buried next to Molly. His brother had married and added two rooms and two children to the homestead. The two older sisters had an apartment in Pikeville, Kentucky and were attending Junior College. The youngest was in California doing God knows what. Jed decided it was time to move on, so he crossed the Tug Fork River into Kentucky and got himself a job at Dooley’s Hardware Store in South Williamson. He courted and married the boss’s daughter, Bertie Dooley, and settled down. They soon had J. D., who they called Junior, followed two years later by Delbert, who was named after Jed’s uncle. Junior grew up book smart like his mother’s side of the family and was a good student excelling in mathematics. Del was like his grandpa, a true mountain man and a natural musician. You could always find Junior at school working on a project while Del was up on a ridge somewhere hunting, or foraging for whatever he could find. Junior graduated with honors from Belfry High School, and received an Engineering scholarship from a school up in northern Michigan which no one had ever heard of called Michigan Technological University. Jed stopped at the local library to see where Houghton, Michigan was. Bertie said it was too far away, but Junior couldn’t wait to get out of town. Following many discussions, the family decided to take a long weekend trip to the north land and have a look. Two days later the Souter family discovered that Houghton, Michigan looked very much like South Williamson, Kentucky. Instead of coal mining, the Keweenaw Peninsula folks mined