Muddy overwhelm threatens to wash away her own dreams, so she anchors herself in mine.
Early autumn, Dave and I plan our return to the midwest for Greta’s wedding. But instead of flying conveniently into Chicago, we route tickets to Milwaukee—there’s a place I need to visit in Ferryville, Wisconsin. In September of 2016, on a whim, I wrote a letter to the owner’s of Charlie’s hand-built, by himself, two-story cottage. To my surprise, they replied with uncommon enthusiasm to connect.
Purchased in the early 2000’s from a previous owner, Bill and Donna Cramer lovingly restored Charlie’s home, turning it into a treasured family retreat. When we first spoke on the phone, I was overcome by their kindness—generously offering time, stories and an invitation to visit the house and surrounding seventy-nine acres whenever convenient. Charlie’s original investment was a much smaller chunk of land but his love for history and charming affinity for older generations turned his thirty-plus acres into almost eighty when elderly neighbors up and down the valley deeded land to him upon their deaths.
The Cramers also spoke in detail about Charlie’s flawless woodwork and an unusual penchant for marking his existence—all hidden from view—on cupboards, door frames and secret nooks. Charlie left engraved epitaphs everywhere.
And not just in his home—like the message he carved into a chest of drawers before leaving for basic training during the Vietnam war: 1969 Michigan — San Diego navy base. I never wanted to go.
…and inside his homemade guitar: In commemoration of campout #12 in the hills of Tennessee by Chuck and Dave, August 8, 1970
…and on the back of Paul McCartney’s album Ram: Just words, like all of us.
Did Charlie ever intend for his messages to surface? Am I one of his epitaphs written in flesh?
When I text Donna about our plans to return to the midwest for a wedding, she replies, It’s great timing. Our daughter had her wedding reception at the cottage this past summer and the property looks better than ever. The house and land are still glowing from festivities.
But a week before Dave and I fly east, a major storm hits. Torrential rains fall from the sky for nine days. The Mississippi floods. Mudslides close the main highway running north and south through western Wisconsin. Houses fall off bluffs and onto the highway. And more rain is on the way. When I receive an update from Donna fearing the worst—Rush Creek runs through the property and is a tributary of the Mississippi—I suggest we cancel our visit, but she insists. Muddy overwhelm threatens to wash away her own dreams, so she anchors herself in mine.
I still haven’t been to the property but I want to apologize in advance for what you might see. I wanted it so nice for you and I wanted you to see how special your dad was and the place he built and why he loved it. You will still get to see it, just look beyond the damage. I am still looking forward to meeting you. Your daddy would be so proud of you. I am.
Sometimes the kindness of strangers feels less like social nicety and more celestial intervention. I am the protagonist in a magical realism mystery novel. Am I the author or is someone else scribing me into these scenes?
I listen to torrential rain on the roof, washing away homes and their memories within, and wonder what else needs to be released.
When we arrive at our VRBO in Wisconsin, I spread-eagle under Dave and try to alight into gravity. One long flight plus an equally long drive deliver a troop of hyperactive chimps into my brain. I am armed now though. I have my second-by-second practice of surrendering to what is. Unlike many other abandoned meditation hacks, I now have a visceral opportunity to master letting go, in perpetuity. Twenty-four hours later, the dizziness settles down, only a few rowdy chimps remaining. Twenty-four hours after that, my house sells. Docusign makes it easy; letting go of my house, even easier. I listen to torrential rain on the roof, washing away homes and their memories within, and wonder what else needs to be released.
On Sunday morning we awaken to a cloudless, blue sky. The Mississippi’s now lazy, swollen current belies its cruel potential. Donna calls with a plan, “Let’s meet at The Wooden Nickel, a hole-in-the-wall in Ferryville, and then you can follow us in on the washed-out gravel road. It’s too dangerous to go it alone.” Do I detect tears in her voice? We offer our help—shoveling mud, sponging down walls, making trips to the dump, meals, anything to soften the blow. My own excitement to visit Charlie’s home is a discomfiting contrast to their monumental tragedy. I remind myself: This isn’t Charlie’s home anymore. This is Donna and Bill’s home.
When we finally exchange hugs in the bar’s parking lot, tears threaten another flood; we follow it in on the too-much Rushing Creek Road.
The damage is astonishing. The creek tore itself a wide and violent path right up to the house, eroding and pitting decades of family memories; thick layers of squelchy mud and sediment now carpet a once-idyllic scape; jagged green islands of lawn overstate impermanence. Trees are horizontal. A propane tank rests two hundred yards away in a distraught field of corn. A six-foot deep, gaping hole—where flooding water formed a hydraulic and exploded the sump pump—carves into the basement, now four-feet deep with earth. I take it all in under a gentle autumn sun while wrens trill indifference.
Can grief and awe, bewilderment and wonderment exist within one moment? My brain short-circuits trying to process the argument of emotion.
After a thorough tour—our grief-struck tour guides patiently showcasing Charlie’s craftsmanship—Donna suggests we take a break outside and assess next steps. The water damage in the house is irreparable. The property, ravaged. The basement needs to be filled and sealed. While Bill and Donna weigh options, Dave and I stand near—perplexing bystanders to another’s immediate tragedy. The ground bobs up and down under my feet. Rush Creek stopped flooding but her specter still rocks my core.
Donna looks at me, eyes brimming,
“Kimberly, what if we have to raze the property?”
The direction of her question puzzles me, like she’s asking Charlie’s permission, through me. Once erased by a massive force of water, is Charlie now tidying up loose ends? Maybe he doesn’t want crumbs of his existence around anymore. When Donna’s question lands into the solemn circle of our bodies, every hair on my arms stands on end in epiphany—this isn’t a meeting, this is a memorial. And Charlie, carried in on the same elemental power that took him away, offers his final epitaph. Not with knife or hardwood surface, just water. And lots of it.
Let go.
I spent the last 24 hours binge reading your memoir. I don’t even remember who shared the notification circling a portion of the preface that also resonated with me.
In the beginning I didn’t think I could relate, but it’s definitely a page-turner. I lost track of how many times I cried from myriad emotions. I was in a hole, and you helped me out. Forever grateful to you for your willingness to be raw and real.
I did not take time to love or comment on posts yet, because I needed to keep going. I will when I read it all again. Closer to recent posts, I began reading comments and admire how you dialogue with your readers.
Fairly new to Substack, I had only dabbled in reads until now, because I’m working on my own memoir. Thanks for showing me the way, but you set the bar so high.
Each person you have come in contact with, they read your heart and fall into your story. What a beautiful testament to you.
“…an unusual penchant for marking his existence.”
Carving his name, leaving messages. He carries himself from the past to those in the future. He leaves a piece of himself for someone to find. I am beginning to think he knew. You would seek to find. You would be coming.
Or the universe knew.
“Maybe he doesn’t want crumbs of his existence around anymore.”
I’m not so sure.