“By nine a.m. he was driving down a country road east of Hudson, Wisconsin, on his way to Mike’s place on Mail Lake. Where he grew up. Back then the asphalt road he was driving had been gravel.Rane passed through cookie-cutter white-trimmed faux Cape Cod condos that now lined the paved road. “Too many rats in the cage,” Uncle Mike would say.He glanced up at an ambiguous gray sky that could rain or clear off. A faint stir of northwest wind nudged the pines crowns. Almost warm, close to fifty-five... degrees.He remembered fields and woods; an abrupt transition for a boy nannied and tutored in the Summit Hill district of St. Paul. Marcus and Julia Rane had been flying to a performance in Milwaukee when their small plane hit shear winds and went down.Uncle Mike had been Rane’s guide through the abrupt switch from studying piano at the MacPhail Center for the Performing Arts to splitting oak rounds with a heavy steel maul. Mike introduced him to fishing, hunting, and the white-chip fury of a bucking chainsaw.He turned at the red fire number sign.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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