Jay's Story

Before coming here, I didn’t know anything about Stevens Point, except that it is home to the Green Circle.

On its twenty-seven-mile journey around Stevens Point, Wisconsin, The Green Circle Trail loops through quiet neighborhoods, emerald forests, and along tree-lined rivers. I brought my Cannondale bicycle on this trip, and this is my fourth ride on the Green Circle. The most memorable part of the journey so far is the rapids.

As I ride by the churning waters, I think about how different the landscape is from where I grew up in mid-Michigan, a place where farmers work gently rolling land covered with glacial till and the humus of ancient forests. The farmland stretches hundreds of miles from the sandy western shores of what the original people called Michigami, “Great Lake,” to the rocky eastern shores of Karegnondi, “Freshwater Sea.” The old ones knew what they were talking about. The Great Lakes really are freshwater seas.

In Michigan, I’d have to travel to the Upper Peninsula to find bedrock. A drive that can take all day. But here in Wisconsin, bedrock pokes through the soil unexpectedly. And when the rivers collide with bedrock, the waters bend, dance, and churn.             

With a mile or so to go, the crushed stone trail leaves the forest and spills onto a residential street. Blowing through a stop sign, I pass rows of homes built almost a hundred years ago. They’re mostly small bungalows, some with small porches. They’re all covered with the highest-maintenance siding you can think of, wood clapboard, and are painted in whites, pale blues, or browns. Most are in good shape, considering their age. But the neglected ones are missing chunks of paint and peppered with patches of weathered pine.

Making a left turn and passing more houses, I come to a stop at a railroad crossing. A chain of boxcars stretches across the road, around a bend, and out of sight. I take a long drink from my CamelBak and wait. The boxcars don’t move. They just sit there silently, like a permanent part of the neighborhood.

After catching my breath, I turn around and take a side street north. “There has to be another crossing,” I mutter, but it looks hopeless as I wheel up to another blocked crossing.

I take off in the opposite direction and find a street that runs beside the curving tracks. After about a quarter mile, the road curves away from the tracks, and a dead-end sign with three rifle holes dead center comes into view. Beyond the sign is a parked car and a woman walking up from the river, its waters shimmering through gaps in the forest.

She’s fairly tall, with long brown hair and an attractive figure. We both stop at the car.

“Hi, I’m Tom,” I say. “Is there a way around this train? It’s been blocking the road at least fifteen minutes.”

“It’s the switching yard,” she says. “They’re probably setting cars for a west coast run. The law says they can block a street for ten minutes, but for long trains, it takes about a half hour; I dated a guy who works there. I’m Jay, by the way.”

Now that she’s standing in front of me, I can see her eye color, and it’s several shades lighter than the green forest behind her.

“Are you riding the Green Circle?” she says, leaning back against the car. Pulling aside her hair, a cigarette hidden behind her ear flips into her hand. Magic.

“The trail’s great! A few hills here and there. A nice mix of forests and meadows. And there’s so many streams and lakes. I passed several dams too.”

She is looking at me, but her hands go through a well-practiced routine. A finger on the outside of her jeans slides a cigarette lighter out of her front pocket, her hand cups the flame, even though the late afternoon air is still, a long first drag, and an even longer exhale. In the flow. She never once breaks eye contact.

“In its day, this was a lumber town, and the dams powered the early sawmills,” she says matter-of-factly. “We learned all about it in grade school.”          

Exhaling again, she says, “The Green Circle runs alongside Pioneer Park and the riverfront for over a mile. The Wisconsin’s wide there, a great spot for smallmouth bass fishing. There’s a band shell too, and on Thursday nights, folks sit in lawn chairs under the shade trees and listen to our community band. I know most the songs. The Beatles, musicals, and movie soundtracks, like Star Wars. Some songs remind me of nursery rhymes.

“Our downtown’s fared better than most.  Walmart, Lowe’s, and the usual chains have all popped up just outside the city limits. Some big corporation bought up the Peterson and Nelson dairy farms. I heard Peterson built himself a huge home on a mountain in Colorado. I don’t know where the Nelsons went.”

Jay finishes the last puff of her cigarette and twists the butt into shreds beneath the toe of her pink Nike.

“Do you walk here often?” I say.

“Just spending the afternoon here. I live out of my car right now.”

I glance into the car, and sure enough, in the back seat is a suitcase and sleeping bag. “I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s my choice.” Jay takes a deep breath and continues. “I was the oldest of three kids, and for as long as I can remember, I took care of them while mom and dad worked or drank beer watching the Brewers play baseball.”

After a deep sigh, she says, “They ordered me around all the time. ‘Bring me a beer. Change your sister. Get dinner ready. Why’d you burn the potatoes; potatoes are so easy.’ They criticized everything I did. I couldn’t do anything right.

“On my seventeenth birthday, my boyfriend took me on what he said would be a ‘special date.’ At a drive-in in Wausau after intermission, he crawled over the center console and stole my virginity. Only two good things came of it: my daughter and leaving my parents’ home. I’ve lived with three men since then. Most treated me like my parents, some worse.” She grins sarcastically. “I can really pick’em. I’m working on that.”

“I suffer from something similar,” I say. “I call it Knight in Shining Armor Syndrome. It’s the urge to fix a woman’s problems. But life’s taught me it’s impossible to fix anyone but myself. When I’ve tried, she just ended up resenting me. Eventually. Once wasn’t enough. I’ve been down that road three times now.”

“Glad to hear I’m not the lone repeat offender,” Jay says, smiling. “We all have lessons to learn.”

Jay magically produces another cigarette from behind her other ear. And with the same automatic sequence, she brings it to life. She jabs the sky with its red tip as she talks. “When the baby was old enough, I started working at a gas station. It was easy enough, but kind of boring. The worst part was all the men hitting on me. When I was eighteen, I earned my GED, and my teacher asked a friend to give me a job in her husband’s office.

“On my first day, they had me do some filing and answer the phone, but sitting behind a desk with professionals all around frightened me. It felt so strange.   I must have done ok because when work was over, Judy, the dentist’s wife, pulled me aside and passed me three twenty-dollar bills and said, ‘We’ll take this out of your paycheck over the next few months. But I’d like you to go shopping tonight and buy some nice clothes. You’ll be surprised how confident you feel when you dress up like the other girls.’ I blushed a little, and she whispered in my ear, ‘We girls have to stick together.’

“Eventually, Doc had me stand in the examination room doorways and watch his team work; it was fascinating. Doc and Judy helped me become a dental hygienist, and I was able to get me and my baby out of my boyfriend’s parent’s basement. Doc and Judy retired five years ago, and I moved me and my daughter to Seattle. I still keep in touch with Doc and Judy. I’m having breakfast with them in the morning before I drive back home.”

Looking at the nub of her cigarette, Jay flicks it down the road. It rises in a gentle arc, like a red comet trailing sparks as it fades into the twilight. The waning sunlight flatters her, and the sun, just below the horizon, fringes her hair with a soft, angel-like glow. Her green eyes shimmer a bit in the day’s last light.

“Pretty depressing story, huh?” Jay says. “Well, I did learn something. I learned I can’t be around my parents and people like them; and I sure can’t fix them. So, this trip has been kind of a test. My mom’s not well, so I’ve come back to see her. But I know if I stay in their house, they’ll have my mind screwed up in no time. That’s why I’m in my car.”

Suddenly, a loud clap of metallic thunder booms from over Jay’s shoulder, and the boxcars start moving.

“Looks like I can get across now,” I say. “Seattle’s a cool town, Jay. I have a feeling you’re doing great there.”

As I swing my leg over the bike, Jay reaches into her back pocket and retrieves a pack of Lucky Strikes. She taps out a cigarette and pauses before lighting it.

“You know, I’d like to quit this someday,” she says.

Without thinking, I quip, “Well, maybe it’s like baseball. Three strikes and…”

A smile comes to Jay’s face, and she puts the cigarette back and tosses the Lucky Strikes on her dashboard.

“Nice meeting-ya Tom, have a safe ride back,” she says.

And I push off into the twilight.