Dollar Bay — Not a Dump — Part III

Avenue G — Neighbor Street

Avenue G, the street where I grew up, was also known as “neighbor street.” It got this moniker from the Wuebben family, who lived one street over. They were a large Apostolic Lutheran family with 13 kids who lived across the alley from me. Their street did not have sidewalks, so they spent a lot of time riding their bikes on neighbor street. Picture tiny kids riding bikes three sizes too big for them, and you’ll be picturing any number of young Wuebben kids along Avenue G. The street is now known as Granite Avenue. When the area finally got a 911 system put in place, many of the small towns had their streets renamed due to confusion from similar sounding addresses. Most streets in Dollar Bay were renamed after trees — Dogwood, Cedar, Elm, Fir — but apparently they couldn’t come up with a tree that starts with the letter G. Incidentally, Avenue H, where the Wuebben family lived, is now Hellman Avenue, named after a state legislator who was one of Dollar Bay’s more famous residents.

I park my car by First Lutheran Church on the corner of Third Street before starting my walking tour. My block is bookended by two large white churches — First Lutheran and Bethany Baptist. As a kid I would complain a lot about the fact that we attended neither church and instead belonged to the Catholic church a few blocks away. However, I enjoyed spying on the cute Baptist boys from my bedroom window using binoculars. What can I say . . . it was a small town and most of the Baptist congregation came from neighboring towns, which made them exotic.

I first saw the new mobile home sitting on the corner of Granite Avenue and Third Street, across from First Lutheran Church, when I was in Dollar Bay for the Fourth of July parade. It’s located smack dab on the edge of old Jack Champion’s prized vegetable garden. I knew Jack’s been dead for years and the garden was long gone, but it still strikes me as an odd place for a mobile home. Between my memories of his glorious garden, all the attempts we made as kids to raid it , and the landscape itself, it just seems an odd location.

When a friend of my mother’s mentions the murder that took place there, I’m shocked. I knew all about the terrible domestic assault that resulted in the murder of a brilliant 27-year-old Iranian woman back in December, but had no idea it happened just down the street from my old house. Sanaz Nezami had recently moved to Dollar Bay and was about to begin a doctorate program in environmental engineering at Michigan Technological University in Houghton when she was brutally beaten by her husband Nima Nassiri and died a few days later. The couple had only been married a few months and the murder received quite a bit of media attention due to the compassionate response by the medical community, the use of technology to connect with Nezami’s family in Iran and the donation of her organs used to help save seven lives. You can read about the case here —

Iran Times Article

Huffington Post Article

When I first learned of the of the story, I was saddened that such a thing occurred in the small town where I grew up. But even more shocking is finding out it happened right down the street from my house. I know I haven’t lived there in 20 years, but I’ll always think of it as my house, my street, my town, and something about the proximity of such a terrible crime to MY house feels personal. Upon looking and photographing the mobile home, it is difficult to not tear up a bit knowing what happened there. Such an act of violence in a place that holds memories of my youth and innocence is difficult to fathom. I can still make out the faint outline of the dirt bike path that once cut through the front yard of the mobile home. I rode my bike down that path countless times on the way to my friend Shannon’s house.

I make my way up the street from the corner toward the house in the middle of the block with the white vinyl siding, then hear a voice call out in a questioning tone, “Chrissy?”

I’m surprised to find our old nextdoor neighbors, the Hebners, sitting out on their front porch.

After realizing they think I’m my older sister Chris, I reply, “No, it’s Michele, the youngest,” making sure to capitalize on my incredible youthfulness.

“Oh, we knew it was a Jokinen for sure,” said Audrey.

It’s nice to see familiar faces, to stop and chat for awhile and share some old memories of the neighborhood. I mention something to them about the murder and we share our shock and disgust.

“Old Jack must be rolling around in his grave,” said Skeeboo. His real name is David, but he has gone by the nickname Skeeboo for ages. I have no idea why.

“That’s exactly what I said when I heard the news,” I reply. We go on to recount Jack’s amazing garden, and how he chased the kids out of it whenever we attempted to get a midday snack. I wish I could remember that little corner of Dollar Bay for the innocent childhood crime of garden raiding instead of the heinous crime that took place so many years later. RIP Sanaz. I’m sorry your short time in Dollar Bay met with such a terrible conclusion.     

Shit Watch: A Tale of Class and Refinement

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Okay, really, it was just a weird time in my life.

I had recently graduated from the University of Michigan with a bachelor’s degree in biology. The lease on the house I shared with my three closest college friends was quickly coming to an end and my friends were all moving on. I had finally secured my first post-college job, as a laboratory assistant sequencing DNA for a U of M service lab. I can’t say I was too excited about joining the workforce, in part because by my junior year I had realized that biology was not the major for me.

I felt lost. College was over, my best friends were all moving away, and yet I was still in Ann Arbor spinning my wheels. The one bright spot in my life at the time was my new found love of photography. I had just completed a basic black and white photo class at a community college and couldn’t get enough of it. The only thing I wanted more than my own darkroom was a way to make a living as a photographer.

But, first thing first, I needed to find a new place to live. Thus, begun my apartment search.

It didn’t take long to realize finding a place by myself was going to be near impossible based on my meager starting salary at the lab. Rent in Ann Arbor was out of my reach, so I began to look at some of the neighboring towns, including Ypsilanti, home of Eastern Michigan University.

I found myself in the leasing office of an apartment complex with the unfortunate name of Schooner Cove. It was exactly the kind of apartment complex I hoped to avoid. Situated on Ford Lake in Ypsilanti, the complex consisted of 15 -20 identical looking apartment buildings with light blue vinyl siding. As happenstance would have it on that fateful day in the leasing office of Schooner Cove, I bumped into an old acquaintance I had known from my high school swimming days back in the U.P. of Michigan, some 500 miles away.

Jon had been a very good competitive swimmer for a high school team two hours away from the town where I grew up. We had known each other since we were kids participating in YMCA swimming and got to know each other a little better when our high school teams competed. He was in the leasing office with his mother, who I remembered quite well, since she was one of those rather outspoken and involved swimming parents.

Upon catching-up, we found ourselves in similar situations. We were both looking for an affordable living option in a rather expensive college town. After touring the complex, we decided to go for it and rent a two bedroom apartment together. Sure, we hadn’t seen each other since high school, but what could it hurt. We were both adults who would be working most of the time and just needed a roof over our heads. We were both born and raised in the U.P. and he was engaged to a woman named Erica, so there was never a romantic prospect. I mean, really, what could possibly go wrong?

Upon moving into the apartment, I found the biggest problem was our address — Spinnaker Way, Schooner Cove, Ypsilanti, Michigan. This was back in the day when ordering things over the phone was fairly common. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself awkwardly spelling out every word of my address, on top of my uncommon Finnish last name and unconventional spelling of my first name. That’s Michele (with one L) Jokinen, that’s J-0-K-I-N-E-N, at 1580 Spinnaker Way, that’s S-P-I-N-N-A-K-E-R, at the Schooner Cove Apartments, that’s S-C-H-O-O-N-E-R, in Ypsilanti, Michigan, that’s Y-P-S-I-L-A-N-T-I. You get the picture. Just ordering a pizza could take half-an-hour.

I provided most of the furniture for the apartment. I had inherited most of it from my college house, since I was the only one from the house staying in the area. That said, the quality of the furniture was strictly college grade — nothing worth writing home about. I had told Jon about my love of photography and excitement at the prospect of using the bathroom as a makeshift darkroom. Considering how much I hated my lab job and the fact that most of my friends had left the area, photography was my one little piece of joy. Jon didn’t seem to have a problem with me using the bathroom to develop film and make prints. Afterall, I was responsible enough to clean-up after myself and certainly would get out of the way if he needed to use the facilities.

It seemed like a good idea at the time . . .

I can’t remember exactly how long we were living together before the subject of Erica moving-in came up, but it couldn’t have been more than a few months. I can’t remember where she lived when Jon and I signed the lease together, but I’m assuming she didn’t live in the area. When you’re making $20,000 a year, the prospect of cheaper rent never seems like a bad idea. However, living with an engaged couple, and an engaged couple you do not know very well . . . well, it’s just not a good idea. There is no easier way to become the odd man out in this kind of living situation. It did not take long before Erica made my little piece of joy a very big deal.

Erica wanted her bathroom to be used strictly as a bathroom. It ended up becoming a big point of contention between Erica and me, and Jon was stuck in the middle. I don’t blame him for taking her side, for he didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. However, I felt very slighted. When I had signed the lease, I walked into the agreement with the understanding that I would be able to use the bathroom for my hobby. Of course, being young, stupid, and slightly depressed, it was more than my hobby, it was my passion. Passion damn it! How dare this woman come between me and the one thing that brought me joy!

I can’t remember how it all went down, but soon enough I found myself moving out of Schooner Cover and into my own studio apartment. This involved moving all of my furniture, including a big old couch that I had inherited from my best friend Kristin. It had belonged to one of her grandparents and was in pretty good shape. Having been the owner of most of the furniture, it made me happy to see how sparse the apartment looked after I left it. Feeling bitter? Maybe just a little.

After I moved into my new place, I found the watch buried deep within the couch cushions. It was a men’s digital watch, a big hunk of metal. The band had been detached and writing on the face told me it was waterproof. I had recently bought some second hand darkroom equipment and was in the process of setting up my darkroom in the bathroom. One thing I didn’t have was a reliable timer for processing prints and the next thing I knew I found myself using the watch. I figured I’d eventually return it to Jon, but saw no harm in using it for awhile in my creative endeavors. After all, didn’t he owe me something?

I’m not sure how long I used the watch for processing before it happened. One evening I went to develop some prints and couldn’t find it. The bathroom was small, yet I couldn’t find the watch anywhere. Finally, I looked down and something caught my eye. There it was, peaking out from the depths of my toilet bowl. Now I don’t know how closely you pay attention when you use the bathroom, but apparently I’m not the most observant while doing my business. Maybe if I was a man I would have noticed it was down there. Alas, I had no idea how long that hunk of metal had been sitting at the bottom of the toilet, but I was fairly certain at this point it had been shat upon on numerous occasions.

The watch was heavy. When the toilet was flushed, it barely moved an inch. Now any normal person would more than likely manage to fish it out of the toilet, soak it in bleach, and get on with life. But, I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as normal. At this point in my life, I’d describe myself as slightly crazy and very vindictive. And really, it was a bit gross — did I feel like dealing with a watch that’s been pooped upon? So, I decided to just leave it.

That night, while trying to fall asleep, I noticed a strange beep. A few hours later, I heard it again. Apparently the watch had some kind of setting that made it beep at the top of the hour. Why I had never noticed this before is beyond me. But, each night, as I drifted off to sleep, I would hear the beep calling out to me from the depths of my toilet and I’d giggle to myself in a slightly disturbing manner. Oh sweet revenge. Oh sweet shit watch.

All good things must come to an end . . .

One day I finally got around to calling maintenance regarding a slow drain problem with my bathroom sink. When I returned home from work, I found a notice on the door that the maintenance person had been by to fix the problem. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the bathroom and there sitting on the sink is the shit watch! The maintenance man must have noticed the watch at the bottom of the toilet and did what any nice maintenance man would do — fished it out of there. For a few moments I just stared at the watch. It had come to symbolize so much in my sad little existence, that seeing it face to face out of the water seemed odd. “You don’t belong here,” I said to the watch.

I found a plastic ziploc bag, turned it inside out and collected the watch like it was evidence. I then ran some hot water, poured dish soap in the bag and filled it with water. I let it soak in the bag over night and the next day I set the watch out to dry.

I had been talking to Jon about picking up some of my mail that hadn’t been forwarded to my new address. I can’t remember where we met up, but I brought the watch with me to give back to him. For some reason I wrapped it up in paper towel and placed it in a plastic baggie. Maybe on some level I felt it was forever contaminated. Who knows. I can’t recall his reaction to getting the watch back, especially in its oddly wrapped state.

I am curious to know what became of the watch. Does he still own it? Does he ever wear it? In the age of the smartphone, does he bother? I am happy to report that these questions do not keep me up at night.