 The shop was much less inviting than I expected it would be when I Googled “antique shops near me”. The door was of the nondescript, utilitarian, steel variety with iron bars over the windows on each side of it, standing guard. It looked as though the adjoining building had been violently ripped off the side of it at some point, leaving a jagged edge of protruding bricks along the top edge. But this was it; the faded sign extending over the cracked sidewalk below confirmed we had arrived to our destination: Junque Shop Antiques. As my dad and I entered the ramshackle building, I heard the clinking of coffee cups and the deep voices of old men. Somewhere in the little office space at the rear of the building, a TV squawked the play-by-play of that afternoon’s football game. The owners of the old voices were also found at the back of the building; the white man sitting on a stool, the black man making himself some coffee. The small building smelled of stout coffee, dust, and things old. “Who knows? Maybe we’re related,” the white man jested at the black man. “You know, you just might be right,” the black man said, stirring his coffee. “Your family ever have slaves?” “Slaves?” snorted the white man. “My family was so poor we couldn’t afford to pay attention. We didn’t have no slaves!” The black man laughed, taking his styrofoam cup into his hands. “That’s true, that’s true,” he said. “You want half my sandwich?” the white man said to the black man. “Yes, please!” the black man said. “Thanks, man.” The white man turned to us, as he split his sandwich in two. “Can I assist you gentlemen?” he asked. Dad smiled at him. “Just browsing your wares,” he said. “I hope you do more than browse!” the man retorted with a kind, but mischievous grin. We continued to peruse the store. The floor creaked--well, I am left to assume it was the floor, because I could see no floor. It was strewn with a menagerie of things, all covered by a blanket of dust. The walls, too, were plastered with relics of Detroit’s past, most of which had seen better days. An old mantle clock that, along with tarnished trumpets, battered hat boxes, and rusted coffee cans, sat precariously on top of a rickety shelf, a thick layer of dust enveloping it and everything else around it. We browsed the cramped basement, ducking so as not to hit our heads on the low-hanging ceiling. More dust-enveloped relics. A man with a pointed nose and an Indiana Jones-style hat thumbed through a stack of lithographs, searching for a treasure of his own. We trekked back up the narrow stairway and into the cluttered curiosity shop. I looked up, again, to where the mantle clock was sitting. I took it down and wiped off some of the dust, revealing a beautiful walnut case with a small chip out of the front for added character. “What are you asking for this clock?” I asked the white man. “That clock? Well, let’s see. It’s a Seth Thomas, so it’s a good clock. Why don’t you see if it runs.” It did. We haggled, until we found a price we could agree on, and shook hands. The black man continued sipping his coffee and eating his sandwich, watching us seal the deal. We shook hands; he gave us his card; and we left. Is there a better way to spend an afternoon? I think not. 
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 A couple of summers ago, my dad and I took a drive from his home in Cass City, Michigan out to the ghost town of Tyre, Michigan, in Austin Township. While, at one time, it was a bustling farm village with two general stores, a post office, church, hotel, and a railroad depot, among other things, it is little more than a crossroads today.
As we drove through, the setting reminded me of Whistlestop, the fictional town in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. Little did I know, at the time, Whistlestop and Tyre share more than visual similarities; they are both scenes of mysterious murders. Jacki Howard’s The Thumb Pointed Fingers tells, in novel form, the story of the murders of the Sparling men at the turn of the 20th century, in Tyre. First, J.W. passes away in 1909, due to an unknown illness; he was followed by son Peter in 1910, and both sons Albert and Scyrel in 1911, all of whom died of painful illnesses doctors later diagnosed as arsenic poisoning. The first two-thirds of the book tells the story of the Sparling family and the untimely deaths of the Sparling men. The last third of the book, beginning with chapter 43, is where it gets good. The bulk of it is a fascinating transcript of the trial proceedings of the accused (I won’t tell you who it is), and is, by far, the best portion of dialogue in the novel. Despite the interesting story, the novel lacks literary color. The writing is plain and the characters are not well-developed. The readers is often told what a person does, instead of it being described for them, allowing the description to bring the people to life. Additionally, the author does not give the reader physical descriptions of the places and objects about which she writes. We read of automobiles, houses, farms, roads, etc. without having any description of how those things appear, smell, feel. This made reading the novel, especially the first two-thirds of it, at times boring and flat. With that said, the author, who is a relative of the Sparling family, does well at building a fictitious storyline around the basic historical facts of the account. It becomes readily apparent to the reader that Howard has done her research, genealogical and otherwise, in her preparation for telling her family’s fascinating story. I give this book 3 stars out of 5, and recommend it to anyone interested in historical fiction, especially those living in the Thumb of Michigan. You can purchase the book here.  I have had an aversion to graphic novels ever since I first became aware of them about ten years ago. To my way of thinking, graphic novels steal from the beauty of true literature and cannot possibly grant the same enjoyment to their viewers (For those who consume graphic novels can’t possibly be called “readers”, right?) that a traditional book does to its readers.
Before you think me a snob, let me assure you that my views have changed some, since reading Art Spiegelman’s masterful graphic novel Maus. Actually, you can find a few editions of the work, but I read The Complete Maus. The book--and it is a book, I assure you--is the story of Art Spiegelman’s father Vladek Spiegelman and his story of early adulthood in pre-war Poland and later survival in Nazi-occupied Europe. The story is told in a unique way, due not only to its format as a graphic novel, but also because of the way Spiegelman chooses to portray his characters. The Jews are mice, the Poles are pigs, the Germans are cats, the French are frogs, and the Americans are the dogs, who save the day. Spiegelman’s illustrations drive home the inter-cultural complexities of life in Europe during the occupation. At times, Vladek and other Jews in the story disguise themselves as pigs, in an attempt to blend in with their Polish neighbors. And the reader is occasionally surprised to find a pig that is willing to help its mice neighbors, or a cat that can be paid off to turn a blind eye to the activities of the mice in the concentration camps. Such vivid imagery brings the account to life in a meaningful way. While Vladek’s true story is incredibly sad and compelling, as most accounts of Holocaust survival are, the author’s recounting of the circumstances of how his father told him his survival story is charming. The story is recounted by Vladek to his son in the midst of various everyday activities, such as riding his exercise bike to strengthen his weakened heart, driving to the bank or grocery store, and pestering his busy son to put in the storm windows to save money on the heating bill. Additionally, the graphic novel, at least this one, accomplishes what few traditional pieces of literature can do. It allows the reader to effortlessly see the transition between the past and present, as Vladek’s flashbacks are frequent and powerful, though often interrupted by his kvetching about the price of groceries or his wife’ demands. Note: don’t let the pictures fool you--a graphic novel does not equate to a children’s book. The themes present in any telling of a Holocaust story should be handled carefully by parents, and Maus is no exception. The story is graphic, even without the images, and is made even more powerful by the illustrations. Additionally, there is occasional foul language that many, including myself, may find disturbing; but their presence is not overpowering, no matter how little they contribute to the story. I know I have enjoyed a book when I am sad that I have reached the last page, and this was one such book. The story, the way Spiegelman tells it, and the medium he uses to convey the account come together beautifully to form a memorable read. I give this book 4 stars out of 5, and recommend it to most teens and adults, with the reservations I mention taken into consideration. Happy reading! |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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