PROLOGUE
The Village of Franklin is a tiny bedroom community situated in southeastern Michigan. Its claim to fame, as the “Town that Time Forgot” is that its quaint circa 1840 business district still marches sedately, just as it always did, along Franklin Road to the south of the Franklin River and terminates at the base of the abrupt ridge which boundaries the valley of that crystal clear and remarkably pristine little stream. Franklin was established in 1824 when pioneers Dillucena Stoughton, and in 1825, Elijah Bullock purchased the land from the United States Government and settled there. At the top of that sandy, gravely drumlin, to the south of town, is the little Franklin Cemetery which is appropriately protected by fancy, ancient iron fencing. To the north of town, across the river and in Bloomfield Township, stands the Franklin Cider Mill. Originally constructed by Colonel Peter Van Every as a grist mill, it attracted farmers from all over Oakland County to bring their grain to be expertly ground by the mill’s fine, water powered stones. The success of the Van Every Mill brought prosperity to the little village. At one time, the town sported at least five taverns and a couple of hotels to serve the prosperous and often thirsty farmers.
The little cemetery is populated not just by the mix of both historic and contemporary stones marking the graves of former residents, but also by the beautiful white oak trees that gave Oakland County, Michigan, its name. Originally, in 1824, this cemetery overlooked vistas of white oak trees interspersed with newly cleared farmlands. Today, it looks over many of the same white oaks....but now interspersed with fine homes, ball diamonds ,and the spires of the Franklin Community United Methodist Church. This cemetery serves as the locus of inspiration for this tale of the tansy.
Ever since the War Between the States, the Village of Franklin has held touching morning Memorial Day services to honor those who have fought for our country. Veterans from as far back as the War of 1812 are buried there. Some time ago I was asked to speak at a Memorial Day service. Wandering about the cemetery in search of inspiration, I came upon the grave of one Richard Trick, Company E, 30th Michigan Infantry, who died October 29, 1865. Something attracted me to his grave....just one of many of the honored veterans upon whose final resting place the stars and stripes fluttered in the pre-Memorial Day springtime sunshine. Pretending that I was Mr. Trick for the occasion, I gave my speech (which I considered to be cleverly contrived), and promptly forgot about the whole thing. A few years later, as I was contemplating the writing of this novel I again thought of Richard Trick. Leaving my bicycle at the edge of the little road that winds through the cemetery, I attempted to find his grave but could not. Some voice from within cried out to me that there could be a story to be told. “Silly!” I thought I as I returned to pick up my bike. Then, a crazy whim struck me. “Dick Trick!” I cried, “Where the hell are you?” Without hesitation, I then laid down my bicycle and promptly walked directly to the grave that I had just been unable to locate during a half-hour search. I sat in the grass and stared at the stone. Perhaps there was a tale to be told here. Perhaps Richard’s spirit was restlessly hanging around his grave, waiting for his real story to be told. Damned if I know. Dick had died at age nineteen, just a few months after the close of the American Civil War. A few feet, probably two grave widths to the north his sister Ellen was buried who had also died at age nineteen but ten years earlier. I resolved at that moment to tell their story even though I could not possibly do so unless their spirits would be so kind as to guide me in the telling. I have no idea whether they did or did not, but I will say that the story was remarkably easy to write....at some times even seeming to write itself as the characters had their own way as to what would or would not happen, or as to what would be said, or what would occur. They seemed to refuse to do things that I would have them do if it were not within their psyche to do so.
I researched Richard Trick. The only record of him in either the archives of the State of Michigan or in the National Archives was of his grave. He did not appear in the roster of Company E, 30th Michigan Infantry. Richard Trick appeared to be something of a fraud.
So....would you call this a ghost story? Well, maybe.&
