Coldwater

My husband Cliff and I woke up on a Monday morning, the first week in April to a blanket of snow that accumulated to six inches within a few hours. We weren't going to let the snow put a damper on our planned vacation to visit relatives in Michigan and Illinois. We loaded our suitcases in the 2006 gray mini van-without snow tires-and headed upstate New York on Route 219. As Cliff was driving, I inserted one of three CD audiobooks I had picked up at the Ridgway Public Library the evening before. After two hours of driving on barely visible roads, the sun began to peek through the clouds and the warm temperature, more typical of April, made the snow a figment of our imagination. The first audiobook ended as we entered Canada.

After viewing the Canadian side of the falls and having a bite to eat, we headed across Ontario into northern Michigan. We would be visiting my 38-year-old niece, Coleen, my nephew Jim, and their mom, my brother's widow. Twenty-five years ago, my brother Paul had died suddenly of a massive heart attack when he was only forty-two years old. My last visit to Michigan was to his funeral, which left all of us devastated, lost and estranged.

As we entered Michigan and headed south towards Owosso, I studied the map to make sure it coincided with the GPS directions, I noted that we would be going by Frankenmuth, a quaint touristy German town. 

I texted Coleen: We'll be arriving a little later than planned as we are stopping at Frankenmuth before we get to your house.

She texted me back: K. If u have time, stop at Bronner's, the world's largest Christmas Store.

At Frankenmuth, we located a parking spot. As we strolled the picturesque streets, it was nearing the time for lunch. I tried to jog my brain to remember the restaurant we had eaten at with Paul over twenty-eight years ago when I had visited him with my four young children. Paul was the oldest of my five brothers. When our father died, Paul was thirteen years old, and I was three. He filled in as a surrogate father to myself spoiling and teasing me as we grew up together in some adverse conditions. Despite some disagreements as adults, we stayed in touch and tried to visit each other when possible. As Cliff and I wandered into a lovely restaurant, decorated in full German regalia, I felt Paul's presence guiding us. Cliff ordered a variety platter of bratwurst sausages and sauerkraut. I ordered the traditional chicken dinner reminiscent of the meal Paul had treated me to so many years ago.

After eating, we stopped in a few of the shops. While walking back to the car, I looked for Bronner's but it was nowhere in sight. As we were driving away from Frankenmuth and were a mile out of town, I noticed the large Bronner's Christmas Store sign. It was getting late, so we decided not to stop. As we passed the store, I heard Paul say "I wanted to take your there, but you were a Jehovah's Witness and didn't celebrate Christmas. Remember when I took you to see Santa Claus at Macy's in Chicago after I left Mooseheart?"

Clear as day, I could see myself standing in the long line of the department store dressed in blue raggedy stretch pants-shielding my legs from the ice cutting Chicago wind-underneath a red and green plaid dress, the matron had picked out for me. Red cotton mittens hanging from strings-Paul called them idiot mittens-dangled from the sleeves of my ice blue nylon quilt jacket with a fur-lined hood that made me feel like an Eskimo. Red rubber galoshes that stretched over my saddle shoes didn't keep my feet protected the inch of frozen slush on the ground. The cold, wet snow had seeped through my nylon white ankle socks. My toes were numb. I held Paul's warm hand waiting to sit on Santa Claus' lap. I was nine years old at the time, and he was nineteen. I quit believing in Santa, but I pretended I did so I would get presents. It was a struggle not to believe in the magic of Christmas when I was surrounded by the elegantly decorated tall Christmas trees with twinkling lights; that reached the ceilings. Amid the hustle and bustle of people shopping, men and woman dressed in warm winter coats were singing Christmas Carols. My favorite song was Jingle Bells.

I refused to answer him, thinking the voice I heard was my imagination. I suppose it was OK to have a one-sided conversation with him. It was only a few weeks ago–talk about delayed grief-that I had a long talk with him while I was walking out in the woods with my two corgis. With tears streaming down my cheeks I told him how angry I was that he left he left his family and that we missed him. I was sorry I didn't get to thank you for getting me out of the orphanage when I was thirteen years old; he was twenty-three.

I ended my thoughts about the conversation by directing them towards our destination. As Cliff pulled into the driveway of Evergreen Court, the blue sided house was just as I remembered. Dottie and Coleen welcomed us with big smiles and hugs. The inside of the house hadn't changed one bit. Dottie's sister Judy was there visiting for the Easter weekend. My nephew Jim came home from work. He was now a foot taller than me, but still had the same black hair and sheepish grin that I remembered.

My brother Paul and Dottie were in the same class at Mooseheart. Dottie and Judy went to the orphanage when their father was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I went to Mooseheart with my six siblings in 1961 after my father passed away. We reminisced about our years together at the orphanage and multiple counts of sexual, mental and physical abuse that we endured. After supper Coleen's husband Martin stopped by to say hello and played his bongo drum for us.

That evening, as I climbed the steps to go to bed, I thought of all the hard work my brother put into building such a beautiful home for his family. In the morning, I got up to shower. When I entered the bathroom, I couldn't find the light switch. Immediately after saying "OK Paul, where is the light switch?" my had left hand touched the switch on the wall to turn on the bathroom light.

“Thanks, Paul" I mumbled under my breath.

In the morning, we left to visit Cliff's grandaughter, Larissa her family in Illinois. Dottie sent us on our way with Red-Sockey salmon sandwiches and her homemade chocolate chip cookies. As soon as we were on our way I inserted the second CD audiobook that lasted until we merged into the heavier traffic of Chicago. The flat mid-west landscape reminded me of the ten years I lived in the area as a child.

The two-day stay in Galena Illinois, with the brick homes and quaint shops, went by quickly. After a tour of General Grant's home, attending church and enjoying a delicious Easter Dinner of roast lamb and vegetables we began our trek home. We planned on making it past the Chicago traffic to the Illinois/Indiana border by dark on Sunday evening. We would drive the remainder ten hours back to Pennsylvania on Monday.

I opened the last of the audiobooks and inserted the first disc into the CD player after we were on the interstate. The First Phone Call From Heaven by Mitch Albom wasn't a book I would have usually picked. The story was about people who had lost loved ones and were receiving phone calls from deceased family members. My initial judgement was that the story was a little phony. We listened to the CD for about thirty minutes, and I ejected it.

"This is depressing. I'm on vacation from hospice work and don’t care to listen to stories about people that have died right now.”

I turned the radio on to the familiar WLS Chicago radio station and listened to music, almost expecting to hear Wolfman Jack's raspy voice. I thought this is 2015, not the 1960's. Breathe, stay focused and stay present Jeanette.

As the sun was beginning to set behind us signs to Mooseheart, were flashing in front of us. We passed Randall Road, the back road to Mooseheart, the orphanage where I had lived from 1961-1971 after my father had died from health problems related to a drunk driving accident. I could hear Paul laugh as he reminisced about him driving our mom's 1957 green station wagon, without a driver's license. I was in the back seat singing "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall." I was surprised that I had no feelings of sadness or anger as Cliff, and I drove past the orphanage. Perhaps I am tired, and that's why I'm thinking about Paul speaking to me I thought.

As it was getting dark, we found a hotel room at a Red Roof Inn outside of Gary, Indiana. After a good night's sleep, we stopped at Bob Evan's for breakfast. Cliff ordered a hearty home-style breakfast, and I ordered a veggie omelet. The waitress brought us coffee and tea. As Cliff was sipping his hot cup of black coffee, he stated, "I was enjoying that book we were listening to last night. I often wonder if Stephen will try to contact me somehow.” Stephen, his forty-one-year-old son, had died two years earlier.

“I didn’t realize that was on your mind. I’ll give listening to the book another try on our way home.” I had read Mitch Albom's book Tuesday's with Morrie and found it interesting so I was hopeful that I could get through the seven CD set during our ten hour plus ride home. When we got back in the car, I put away the maps, unplugged the GPS and told Cliff I knew the home like the back of my hand.

After entering the interstate, where I-80 and 94 intersect for a few miles, I put in the disc and began listening to the book from the beginning, paying close attention to all the different characters. The setting of the book was in a little town called Coldwater, Michigan, which I assumed was a fictitious place. When the first disk ended, I fumbled for the second disk and put it into the player to continue listening to the entrancing book full of twists and turns. Some of the residents of Coldwater believed the phone calls were truly from heaven causing a religious revival in the community. But a few skeptical people questioned the credibility of the phone calls that were all coming from the same cell phone server.

My concentration was broke by a “Welcome to Michigan” sign. I should have listened to the voice that said “You're on the wrong road Brat (Paul's nickname for me)” but I didn't. A sign for the exit to Warren Sand Dunes caught my eye. We had stopped there on our way to Illinois, just two days ago. My brother Paul and his family camped there annually. Still listening to the audiobook, my mind wandered to what Paul would say if he called me from heaven.

As clear as day I heard him say “Thanks for visiting Dottie, Coleen, and Jim. Please keep in touch with them.”

I answered. “I regret being estranged from them for so long, but it was hard being in a crappy marriage with Gary, on top of not knowing how to manage the grief of losing you. Cliff is a good guy and will support me staying in touch with them."

A road sign that said route 94 jolted me out of my trance. “Cliff we aren’t on I-80. We are in Michigan on Route 94. Why weren't you paying attention and helping me with directions? We are never going to get home at this rate."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Cliff was listening intently to the book, and I had told him that I knew that way home. I ejected the disk, exited off Route 94 and pulled into a vacant hotel parking lot. Cliff handed me the Michigan map. I unfolded it and seen that we were near Battle Creek Michigan, only a few miles from Route 69 that would take us down to Fort Wayne Indiana where we could get on I-80. The detour was only forty miles. At eighty miles an hour, only one half hour was added to our driving time. With nothing to fret about, I apologized to Cliff and pushed the disk back in the player.

I eased onto Route 69 and was again caught up in the story until a sign that read COLDWATER caught my eye. Not wanting to miss any of the book, I ejected the disk and said "Cliff, did you see that sign?"

“What did we take the wrong road again?”

“No Cliff, it said COLDWATER. That’s where the setting of the book we are listening to takes place.”

“Don’t tell me this is one of your miracles.”

“Then what do you call it when we are going through the exact town that the story takes place? I'm thinking about what my brother Paul, who lived in Michigan and passed away twenty-five years ago, would say to me if he called me from heaven?"

“When you put it that way it does sound more than coincidental” he replied.

After getting on I-80, I listened to the book even more intently. God had a message for me and I needed to pay attention. As we crossed the state of Ohio, both Cliff and I were intrigued and wondering if the phone calls were from heaven or if they were a hoax. As we headed toward Columbus, Ohio, my right leg was numb from driving. We took a short break and had a late lunch. Cliff took over the driving since we were nearly home. As we crossed the Pennsylvania border, I looked at the map to see how close we were to Hermitage where my mom and dad were buried. It was only ten to fifteen miles out of the way. I thought about stopping at the cemetery but listened to the voice that told me I was tired, and this wasn't the time.

As the landscape turned into the familiar Allegheny National Forest, the book was nearing completion. It held our attention as we pulled into the driveway of our country home. I won't reveal how the story ended, but will say that I am deeply touched and a definite believer that our deceased loved ones can contact us in some way, shape or form. I have no doubt that divine direction caused me to “randomly” pick up The First Phone Call from Heaven, which is far from a phony book.

In July my daughter and three grandaughters are traveling to Michigan to keep in touch with Dottie, Coleen and Jim. Visiting Bronner's Christmas Store is at the top of our list. Paul will be delighted to see our face light up when we experience the magic of Christmas and his presence.