In this third and final installment ofThe SideRoad Kids, the boys and girls say goodbye to their childhood. As such, this book contains themes and imagery unsuitable for young audiences. Each of the nine stories is told by one adult character. Blew, Flint, and some of their friends joined the U.S. Army and served their country during the Viet Nam War. When they came home, they realized the war had changed them. They were men now. They had seen death up close and would never be the same. Some coped better than others. Some married, some started families, some divorced. Katie, the most independent of the bunch became a lost soul and spent time in the Peace Corps upon graduating from college. Shirley escaped the confinement of the small country town of Brimley, MI. The gravel road, so familiar to these individuals, was unaware of the turmoil surrounding it. Grass grew, birds sang, and the river kept its secrets. 'Once again, Kennedy whisks readers into the rural past of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Through beautiful prose and memorable characters, each evocative story, complete in itself, also links to the series as a whole. The author's deft artistry forges visceral and spiritual links that define community.The SideRoad Kids trilogy stands as a celebration of victories despite brokenness, love despite rejection, and forgiveness. These books deserve high praise and elevate Kennedy to a most honored place among Michigan writers.'--Sue Harrison, national best-selling author ofThe Midwife's Touch 'Over the years, I've read many of Sharon Kennedy's stories. She's an amazing writer who draws you into the lives of her characters and keeps everything relatable. Readers can easily recall similar experiences. She makes you laugh, makes you think, and makes you want to keep reading.The SideRoad Kids is an entertaining book about a group of children growing up in Northern Michigan.'--Kortny Hahn, Senior Staff Writer,Cheboygan Daily Tribune From Modern History Press
Fenders
I slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and stepped off the train at the Sault Ste. Marie depot. The ride from Detroit had been a good one. The travelers on the Soo Line were strangers, but not for long. I was wearing my dress greens, and some passengers asked where I had been stationed. I was lucky. I didn’t serve in Viet Nam so nobody called me “baby killer” or any other awful name, and nobody wasted their spit on me to show their contempt. A few youngsters shook my hand. I wasn’t ashamed of the time I spent with Uncle Sam. I went from being a no-account country hick in the little burg of Brimley in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to an Army Supply Sargeant. Maybe no great accomplishment in the mind of a CO, but good enough for me. I thought I might become a lifer—a fellow who makes the military his career—but after a dozen years, I’d had enough. Some of the guys who enlisted at the same time I did left after their stint was up. Some spent so much time in the stockade, they were discharged with the same rank as when we finished Basic Training—PFC. It must have been Ma’s prayers that blessed me with patience and promotions and kept me out of the war zone or I’d never have lasted as long as I did.
I didn’t tell anyone I was coming so no one met me. I didn’t mind. It was a beautiful morning. My duffle bag was heavy, but I was used to it. I walked to Ashmun Street. My first stop was the American Café. When Pete, the owner, saw me, he shook my hand and cooked me the best breakfast I’d eaten in a long time. I didn’t have to ask for a refill of coffee. My cup was never empty as the waitresses went from one booth to another with a hot pot in hand. People were talking and laughing and enjoying their meal. Everything seemed so normal, so different from the mess halls I was used to. Even the smell of bacon frying in what I envisioned was a cast iron skillet meant more to me than the aroma of Germany’s national food, sauerbraten, although it was a pretty close second.
It felt good to be home. As I ate, I heard the whistles of freighters going through the locks. I knew the shops on Portage would soon be opening their doors to tourists. The fudge shops would be busy making the sweet stuff I loved. I paid my bill and walked a few steps to the Karmelkorn Bakery. I couldn’t wait to taste their fried cinnamon rolls. Sometimes I even dreamed about them.
I sat at the counter and drank another cup of steaming coffee while I devoured the sweet roll. When I finished, I asked the clerk to put a dozen in a bag for Ma. Then I headed for the door. I was all set to hitchhike to the sideroad when Mr. Sims, one of our neighbors, almost knocked me down as he entered the bakery. I was about to yell
