Staring across the bay to Lake Michigan, Job pondered what sort of life could be had beyond those waters. A lake-steamer moved through the rays of heat nearly to the line where the water met the sky. In his mind he pictured himself shoving the ridiculous totem poles out into the water. Maybe they would be picked up by a lake-steamer, perhaps one from Sweden. "Wouldn't an old Swedish captain like that," he thought to him self in a broken whisper, "finding totem poles in the middle of Lake Michigan to take back with him?"







A short section from the novel is included below:

Job got up and walked into the woods. Fern stood up, but hesitated, then turned towards the cabins.
    “Watch and listen,” Job called back signaling Fern to follow him.
    The supervisor, who was a troubled soul suffering the effects of hard drinking and double divorce, lashed out at Job’s refusal to cooperate with the totem poles. Job was given extra duties, some dangerous, to perform by himself while the team worked on the totem poles.
    The nastier the detail, the better to break his spirit; or so the supervisor thought. He was given the task of covering up a rancid garbage dump. Then he was told to dig new outhouses and fill in the old ones. Entering one old outhouse Job noticed that some snakes had been tossed into the pit. The intention was to strike fear into him, but it did not work. Instead he felt sorry for the snakes that were dropped into the putrid waste. He wrote a poem and posted it on the old out house door. That building was closed off, but never torn down.

    ......(poem skipped).......

    The supervisor reached out to tear the poem off the door, but was stopped by Jorgensen, “Leave it be; and sir, I like the poem.”
    The supervisor let out a belch and looked Jorgensen up and down as if to say, “Do you know who your talking to?”
    Jorgensen stood tall as if he could have answered the unspoken question with, “Does it matter?”
    Later in the day, some one had applied a coat of shellac to preserve the poem and then nailed the out house door shut.
    Waterlogged wood had been pulled out of the water with a combination of tractor and raw muscle power of work teams and left on the beachhead to dry. Job was singled out, during the intense heat of mid afternoons, to clear away the rotting debris pulled from the designated beach site. He climbed on top of a pile of wet logs to pull out the decaying muck of tangled lake-weeds, dead fish and half rotted seagulls, when he noticed the sun and sky mingle into the dark crevices of the logs. The stench overwhelmed him; dizziness over-came him. His ears began ringing and the head tingled as he felt himself fall backwards unable to determine up from down, or sky from earth. An onrush of voices surrounded him as he slammed into the sand. Moments later he felt people propping up his legs and untwisting his arms.
    “A couple of you give him some shade, rest of you back off and let him breathe. Fern, run back and get some help,” ordered one person.
    Job began to focus in on the face of the senior crewmember, Ralph Jorgenson. The tingling from his head and fingertips eased as blood rushed back. Two other large fellows, looming over him, comfortably blocked the bright sun.
    “Job,” Jorgenson called out, “You hear me OK?”
    “Ja,” came the weak, confused reply.
    “Just stay still. You probably passed out from the heat. In a moment we are going to pick you up and cool you down in the Bay, just in case heat stroke is setting in. Gads! Does it stink down here. No wonder you passed out.”
    The term heat stroke worried Job, but he remained as he was laid out on the beach trusting Jorgenson’s judgment.
    “Talk to me,” Jorgenson insisted, “’don’t want you going out on me again.”
    They made him tell his age, count to ten; tell where he was born, and a host of general information to keep him talking.
    “Know any good jokes?”
    “Just some dumb ones,” Job smiled back.
    “Forget it,” Jorgenson jested. “Tell us about your girl friend instead.”
    “Aint got one, yet.”
    “You do have problems. Got ta’ git yourself a girl friend.”
    Late one morning, after the main totem pole was erected and holes dug for the other two, the unit was given extra time off to rest and prepare for a ceremony dedicating the totem poles. Job was ordered to bang a drum, “Like a real Indian.”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but, out of respect for my tradition, I cannot participate in your ceremony this evening.”
    An argument ensued. The supervisor felt slighted that Job failed to accept the so-called “honor” he said was paid the “Indians” by the totem poles.
    “Sir, you’ve taken our land, forbid us our rights to worship or to keep our language – now you take our sacred symbols, things you know nothing about, and you want me to participate in a diabolical ceremony of your own imagination?”
    The silence of the supervisor warned of a brewing storm. Raising himself up to his full six-foot stature, the boss walked up to Job. Then, lowering his nose to within a couple inches of Job’s he growled, “What do you know about totem poles, Indian? Your people were running around half naked worshipping wooden idols before we came and taught you the truth.”
    Job stared at an olive drab button rather than have his eyes meet with those of the supervisor. The odor of the unbathed slob was repulsive. Job quietly mentioned, “You wouldn’t know truth if it hit you in the face.”
    Fern stepped up to Job’s side. The supervisor waved him off, but he stood his ground next to his friend recalling the words Job said a few days ago, watch and listen. The supervisor turned his hate filled eyes onto Fern. Fern just stood there with wide eyes meeting the narrow slits of the older man. Fern remained silent, trembling at the knees, refusing to budge. The supervisor ignored him and turned back to Job.
    Then, realizing Job had a land guarantee on the reservation, the supervisor threatened to find out if Job truly qualified for the CCC’s. It was only a bluff, but one that Job took seriously. Job was fully qualified for the CCC’s, but it was not at all uncommon for Indians, Blacks or Hispanics to lose a job in favor of hiring a White. No reason was needed in those days to dismiss a worker, especially a minority.
    “Somebody could end up going to jail for this and you may have to pay back everything you earned, Injun.”
    Job walked away while the red-faced supervisor continued to shout at him. The sweaty, fat, ex-Marine bounded after him spouting threats and unprintable slurs against Job and the entire First Nation, but gave up when he could see the spry, younger man had the best of him. Some workers took issue among them about having a half-breed live with them and take a job from others – meaning Whites – and sided with the supervisor.
    Three of the newer arrivals followed Job a short distance then turned back. Their faces and body language spelled trouble.
    Job sought out a secluded spot just above the craggy shore where a continuous breeze kept the biting sand flies off shore and in the tree line. He told no one of this spot so that it would be free any time he was. That area was naturally free of driftwood build up, but the rocky bottom and shallow water made for a poor beach. The large flat rocks were easy to see on a sunny day and made stepping out easy.
    “Escanaba,” was the Anishinabe word for these flat-topped rocks. “Escanaba,” Job repeated quietly again. He left his shoes and socks in a secluded spot under some trees and stepped into the water. It felt lukewarm because of the sun. Rolling up his trousers he waded out to the first of a dozen large rocks dotting the coast. His favorite was a large rock protruding the surface - gray topped when it was dry, but turning a shiny black when rough waves washed it. The rock was large enough to sit on, perhaps even large enough for two to picnic upon.