Showing posts with label Owen Munson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Owen Munson. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 24, 2025

About the BryonySeries: Beulah County Legends

Last week, I wrote an introduction to the fictional Beulah County in the ByronySeries.

Today are the seven mysteries associated with the county.

They are told through the eyes of the Munsonville's first librarian, as she reviews them over lunch during her first train ride in the early 1960s in the BryonySeries novel "House on Top of the Hill."


At noon, June Clements headed for the dining car and ordered a simple meal: a roast turkey sandwich with potato chips, crisp pickles, and hot tea. Then she pulled out her notebook and reviewed her scant research of Munsonville’s origins, legends, and scandals in order of their appearances. The more June learned, the more June questioned – and the more June wondered…

Owen Munson: Wealthy Scottish/Italian mustang runner and mill owner. Founded Munsonville in 1835 when he bought a large parcel of land from – who?

She couldn’t find a shred of evidence that Owen Munson purchased the land that he later established into a Utopian community. Nor could she find a shred of evidence of who owned this uppermost part of Michigan before Owen did. And if anyone could find elusive evidence, she could.

Strange, indeed.

June sipped and stared at the words, thinking.

Someone must have staked his claim into the land, for it escaped becoming an official territory of Michigan until after Owen’s death, when Munsonville went to Beulah County.

But who claimed it first?

John Simons:. World renowned pianist and composer, son of a highly successful industrialist banker. Raised on Fifth Avenue. Attended the once prestigious and now-defunct Wesley Music Conservatory in Connecticut. Married Bryony Marseilles, daughter of a Munsonville minister, on Christmas Eve, 1893. Bought an unknown acreage of woods, named it for himself, and built a mansion on a hill. Abruptly left Munsonville two years later after death of wife and baby in childbirth. Died at age ninety-two in 1955. Mansion and estate intact and rumored to be haunted.

And yet – why, with all the places in the world John Simons had traveled, why had John Simons gone to Munsonville? With all the women he might have married, why had he chosen the pastor’s daughter and built his home in such a remote area?

Educated, cultured music enthusiasts still appreciated Simons’ work, even though the commoners gravitated toward the current rock and roll heartthrobs.

But she had attended John Simons’ final concert in New York. He was outstanding, certainly worth the half a week’s pay the tickets cost. A John Simons ghost story could positively impact tourism – for the right tourists. Yet, time and again, Munsonville failed to acquire the estate, and the ghostly rumor persisted.

Why?

Siren Spell: Least known of the Beulah County legends, despite receiving much press shortly after it occurred. On October 15, 1894, a violent storm sprang up and drowned most of the Munsonvillian men while they fished off their boats on Lake Munson. Only one man returned,

Legend blamed the drownings on sirens, but time drowned even the legends. Why?

The Ghost of Highway 7: Yes, the most famous of the legends because it involved a lesbian ghost and notorious individuals. The lovers were Shirley Wraith, daughter of William Wraith, corrupt mayor of Thornton in the 1940s and Marjorie Mejoriak, daughter and lover of crime lord Michael Mejoriak. Shirley died instantly under a full moon on July 19, 1940, on Beulah County’s Highway 7, when the car Marjorie was driving left the roadway and plowed into a tree. Majorie’s body was found the following day in a fishing cabin in Munsonville. William Wraith subsequently bought the vacant lot at the site and named it Wraith Park. Through the years, motorists claim they’ve seen Shirley and Marjorie walking down Highway 7 toward Munsonville – especially when the moon is full. Legend says Wraith Park is exactly as it’s named: a place for wraiths to park.

Arvid Borgstrom Scandal: Arvid Borgstrom was a Scandinavian who moved to Munsonville around 1885 with his twin sons Erland and Erasmus, who were also fine fishermen. He hanged the following year, the gruesome murder of his wife Astrid Borgstrom, who had been filleted alive. Owen Munson was arrested for harboring Arvid. But those charges were dropped. Erland and Erasmus were among the villagers who drowned in the storm of October 15, 1894.

Mustang Horse Operation: Owen Munson and Clyde Fisher ran an operation that rounded up Mustangs, sent them to Fisher Farm, where they trained and then sold them to ranchers or the U.S. Army. Those that couldn’t be trained or were maimed were killed and sold for their products: leather and horse meat.

The Devil’s Moonshine: The most perplexing operation of them all. One of the barns had a distillery where Clyde prepared, and Owen distributed, “The Devil’s Moonshine” across the United States. Two of their most notorious smugglers were Douglas and Marion Copeland, a pair of newlyweds who bought Munsonville Inn with their banker parents’ money more than thirty years ago, where they remained to this day, operating the inn, instead of facing arrest and prison – even though everyone knew they lived there.


And there you have it. Seven mysteries that are still mysteries in 2025.

And we haven't even gotten into the mysteries or the notoreity that's later than the early 1960s.

For instance, in the late 1980s, the medical director at Jenson Memorial Hospital had produced convincing evidence that Dr. Rothgard had been stealing patient blood samples and experimenting with them at his home. 

During the investigation, authorities discovered freezers full of blood on Dr. Rothgard’s property. The judge ruled Dr. Rothgard mentally unfit, dissolved his practice, and ordered twenty-four hour supervision.

Because of state budget cuts, no other suitable facility could offer mental health services to elderly patients than Golden Years Retirement Home in Thornton.

And that didn't turn out well.

But Dr. Rothgard is a mystery for another blog.





Tuesday, May 20, 2025

BryonySeries: Munsonville, Michigan

Anyone who's heard of the BryonySeries (and if you're on this blog, you have), may also heard of Munsonville, Michigan, and wondered where it's located and why it was even included in the series (especially the novels) in the first place.

So here is an encyclopedia-style explanation along with a reminder of the BryonySeries graduation special at The Book Market in Crest Hill.

What is Munsonville, Michigan?

Munsonville is an imaginary fishing village in the equally imaginary Beulah County in the northern part of U.S. state of Michigan, almost to Canada.

When was it founded?

Owen Munson, a wealthy Scottish/Italian mustang runner and mill owner, founded Munsonville in 1835 when he bought a large parcel of land (actual size undetermined) and established a Utopian community

History

Nearly two hundred years before Owen Munson visited the area, French fur trapper and fisherman Pierre Sicard established a small community that never thrived.

By 1875 and under Owen Munson’s leadership, Munsonville population swelled to 150. By then Munsonville had a general store, a church, a row of fishing cabins, and housing development on its hill.

A sickness spread through the village in late 1876 and killed 50 residents. But Munsonville continued to grow and thrive. Major industries by the end of the nineteenth century included fishing, lumbering, construction, and furniture-building.

On Christmas Day 1893, renowned pianist and composer John Simons married Bryony Marseilles, daughter of Munsonville’s church pastor, built a mansion in the woods for their home, and planted specially bred bryony – a noxious weed – around and through the estate.

John Simons left the area two years later after the death of his wife and daughter and economic progress froze, except for a surge in tourism during the Great Depression. Only fishing remained a primary industry, until Beulah County started clamping down on quotes in the 1960s.

The village of Munsonville bought the old Simons Mansion in July of 1975 to remodel into a museum and transform the village into a tourist spot. But the mansion burned to the ground in December 1975, and progress stalled once more.

The Simons estate became a public park in the early 1980s and a robust community garden by 1990. 

Munsonville became renowned in 2020 when its residents were the last to contract COVID-19.

Geography

Munsonville is bordered by the village town of Jenson, the tourist village of Shelby, and the city of Thorton on its west, Simons Woods and the town of Evansville on its east, a steep hill with three home-lined streets and vast woods to its north, and Lake Munson to the south.

Climate

Munsonville, like many locales in Northern Michigan, experiences four distinct seasons.

Spring and fall are typically mild.

Summers range from hot and humid to cool and breezy.

Winters are bitterly cold and filled with heavy snowfall, sometimes starting as early as October.

Census

Munsonville’s population has held at 386 since the 1950s.

Religion

Munsonville has one nondenominational church and pastors that come and go due to its ghost legend.

Current pastor is Jason Frye.

Economy

Munsonville has few businesses, and they are all located on Main Street. Its most famous business is Sue’s Diner, which attracts diners from all over Michigan and beyond the state’s borders.

Sue’s Diner is owned and operated by Chef Brian Marchellis, a graduate of Joliet Junior College’s culinary artist program. Joliet Junior College is located in Joliet, Illinois.

Employers

Most businesses are family-owned. Munsonville has few to no opportunities for employment.

Government

The village of Munsonville is led by a mayor and a village board.

It’s governance is often irregular. Elections occasionally occur. At other times, officials volunteer for their roles and remain in them for decades. See "Mayors of Munsonville." (entry yet to be written).

Police protection is provided by the Beulah County Sheriff’s Department.

Arts and Culture

None

Sports

None - except one fishing tournament during Munsonville's centennial celebration in October 1975.

Parks and Recreation

Simons Woods has a bike path and a nature center.

Simons Woods is ideal for berry picking.

Fishing is enjoyed year-round, by boat and from the docks.

Education

All twelve grades attend Munsonville School. Class sizes are small.

Infrastructure

Munsonville has only one paved road: Main Street.

Munsonville has no airports, bridges, major highways, public transit systems, or railways.

The source of its water supply is unknown. Each home has a crude septic system that was most likely installed in the 1950s, when running water became available.

Munsonville also received access to electricity in the early 1950s.

Internet connectivity and broadband access is poor to none. Most homes didn’t have telephones or televisions until the late 1970s to early 1980s.

Hospitals

The closest hospital is Jenson Memorial Hospital.

Munsonville has not had a doctor onsite since 2020.

Notable People

John Simons. See "History."

In popular culture

Munsonville became part of popular culture through the phantastic book series called the BryonySeries.


Illustration of Munsonville, Michigan's aerial view by Jennifer Wainright

Tuesday, August 15, 2023

Watermelon Yarn

This week is unintentionally evolving into a watermelon week.

Yesterday I posted a novel way to eat watermelon. So in keeping with that theme, today I will post a watermelon story that appears in two BryonySeries books.

Context: Eleven-year-old Bryony Marseilles and her strict father live alone in a big house. Bryony doesn’t realize she’s lonely until she spends three months with a large family of girls at their farm. For the first time, Bryony can run free and enjoy the company of her peers. She learns people and situations aren’t always what they seem – and that people, even Bryony, change.

In this excerpt below, Bryony enjoys her first taste of watermelon with her summer farm family. And that watermelon is served up with a watermelon "yarn" from Munsonville founder Owen Munson.

This excerpt appears in two BryonySeries books: Summer Sisters and Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles

For another of Owen's yarns,, read this post (with introduction) of Stingy Jack.



The next morning, the mustangs were gone, and beef showed up on the breakfast table.

            "Don't be sad, Bryony," Rose said. "That's why the Grandpa Clyde and Mr. Munson break them, to sell them."

            "Every horse?"

            "There'll be more."

            To celebrate, Grandpa Clyde dug up the first watermelons ever grown on Fisher Farm, hauled them in a wheelbarrow to the fields where the girls were weeding, and then sent Robbie to fetch Mrs. Fisher and the little girls.

            "Oh my! Oh my!" Mrs. Fisher exclaimed at the sight of the juicy scarlet flesh, laid out across the makeshift table of boards and sawhorses and practically begging to be eaten.

            WHACK!

            Mr. Munson's saw knife split the watermelon and rapidly fabricated it into slices.

            Grinning at Mrs. Fisher, Grandpa Clyde brought forth another melon.

            WHACK! Mr. Munson quickly chop-chopped.

            Grandpa Clyde grabbed the largest wedge. "Here, Maybelle."

            "Uncle Clyde, I can't...it's not my place..."

            "Now, Maybelle. Your hungry girls are pining for their first bite."

            "But..."

            "So please respect the tender conscience of an old man, and decide if his first attempts are worthy of consumption."

            WHACK!

            "Clyde, you're too polite," Owen said over another WHACK! "Maybelle, eat the damn thing already. I, for one, don't intend to languish."

            "Well..."

            All eyes watched Maybelle as she bit into the tender rosy flesh. The look on her face wasn't enjoyment.

            It was rapture.

            "Anything like Mississippi watermelons?" Grandpa Clyde reached for large chunk and gestured for the girls to follow.

            "Mmm, hmmm."

            Mrs. Fisher devoured the watermelon, expertly spat out the seeds to the astonishment of the girls, and frantically licked her fingers.

            The slices disappeared as fast as Mr. Munson cut them, with Mr. Munson eating more than any two people, although Robbie gnawed wedge after wedge to the rind with the speed of a hardworking beaver.

            "We're spoiling our appetites for supper," Maybelle wiped her dripping chin with her sleeve.

            "So we spoil our appetites." Mr. Fisher stole another slice. "We'll have bread and cheese and no kitchen clean-up."

            Bryony spat seeds with the rest and wondered how Reverend and Mrs. Parks might react if they could see her acting so common. Susan consistently sprayed farther than anyone, a feat that didn't escape Mr. Munson as he chopped the watermelon.

            "Clyde," Mr. Munson sighed. "I haven't seen seed-spitting this fine since the time we turned an entire city against us because of our watermelons."

            "A likely story," Daisy said.

            "What! Clyde, you never told these beautiful young ladies about our magnificent watermelon patch?"

            "Must've slipped my mind."

            Daisy still looked skeptical. "You're making it up."

            Mr. Munson slapped his hand to his chest. "Upon my beating heart, Miss Daisy, I swear, I'm telling the truth. Now if everyone will gather under that white bush yonder," he pointed to a Japanese lilac, "while I polish off the last of this delectable melon, I will share our strange tale. Clyde, if I forget a detail or two, feel free to chime in."

            "Whatever you say, Owen."

            Bryony eased onto the grass. Her stomach rolled like waves in the lake. Shallow breaths were safer.

            Maybelle reclined against the tree and clasped her hands over her huge abdomen, Marigold curled up near her legs and pillowed her hands.

            Daisy plucked grass; Lilac panted through gaping mouth; Ivy silently gagged;  Rose clenched her fists and closed her eyes.

            "My tummy hurts," Heather announced.

            Mr. Fisher faced the bean fields and hugged his knees.

            Robbie was snoring. Susan was petting Blue.

            Mr. Munson spat out the last seeds and then sprawled beside Clyde, who lay on his back and watched the clouds.

            "It was the winter of eighteen something, January, I think, and your Grandpa Clyde and I were footin' around back east. On a whim, we bought a big ol' field that was going cheap. And on that field was a little green house. Now, what do you suppose we found in the cellar?"

            "Watermelons," Heather said.

            Mr. Munson tweaked her cowgirl hat. "Wrong! There were turnips and rutabagas and potatoes, and pickles and preserves that weren't as good as your ma's and apple cider that was far, far, far better than your Grandpa Clyde's."

            "Thanks, Owen."

            "So your Grandpa Clyde said to me, 'Owen, we could live like kings off the rations until spring,' and I said, "Clyde, we could.' So we set up the checker board and didn't budge for three months, except to venture into the cellar for more cider and provisions."

            "What about firewood?" Ivy asked.

            "Didn't I mention firewood? "

            "No," Daisy said.

            "Oh. Well, there was a huge stack in the cellar. We had plenty all winter."

            "And meat?"

            "Miss Daisy, we had plenty of meat. Any critters sneaking into our basement and hoping to winter with us was skewered and roasted over the fire. That job fell to your Grandpa Clyde, because he kept losing at checkers."

            Grandpa Clyde snickered and slid his hat over his face.

            "Finally, the only item left in the cellar was a burlap sack."

            "A body!" Daisy cried excitedly.

            "Watermelon seeds!"

            "Wha...watermelon seeds?"

            "Miss Daisy, those watermelon seeds gave us the best summer of our lives. We planted, hoed, weeded, and by summer we had splendid watermelons: dark green on the outside and crimson-red on the inside, with seeds so black they looked like flecks of the devil's soul."

            A snort broke out under Grandpa Clyde's hat.

            "Now what do you think we did?"

            "Ate them?" Heather asked.

            "Ate them? We sold them!"

            "Oh."

            "Hundreds and hundreds! Nobody had seen fruit so sweet and ripe. Everyone spent so much on watermelon and giving away prizes for seed-spitting contests, the town went broke. The officials called an important meeting and unanimously passed a law against selling watermelon, and do you know why?"

            No one answered.

            "Because they said it was the devil's fruit, and everyone knows the devil's fruit causes frightful shakes and aches."

            "You had to stop?" Lilac whispered.

            Mr. Munson's face softened.

            "Miss Lilac, it takes a lot more than a silly law and fever or two to stop your Grandpa Clyde and me. For every watermelon we moved out of that field, we set a mossy boulder in its place. Day by day, the townspeople grew more frightened of our field. On July nineteenth an angry mob showed up. And that," Mr. Munson crossed his heart, "is the very last time I tasted watermelon. Until today."

            Ivy's eyes opened wide. "Were you hurt?"

            "They set fire to our watermelon field, but your grandpa and I were already an easy mile away, each of us carrying a sack of money and a sack of watermelon seeds. But we did stop to watch the thick smoke overtaking the sky. Foolish townspeople!"

            Mr. Munson ruefully shook his head.

            "Because they didn't understand watermelons?" Rose asked

            "Because they kept growing their fire, bigger and bigger, until it reached the candle factory, where they stored the saltpeter. The explosion destroyed the town. All they had left was a burnt field of rocks."

            "If that's true," Daisy said, "why didn't it make the papers?"

            "It did make the papers, well, all except the watermelon part. And who can blame them?"

            "I'm glad you and Grandpa Clyde got away."

            "That we did, Miss Lilac, although..."

            Mr. Munson shifted his gaze over the quivering form of Grandpa Clyde.

            "Although, what?" Daisy asked.

            "I don't know, Clyde. Is it wise to tell them?"

            Grandpa Clyde removed his hat. His eyes were merry. "Owen, you've gone this far..."

            Mr. Munson leaned in. "Can you keep a secret?" he whispered.

            They nodded.

            "We never spent our watermelon money. Eventually, they brought the town back to life and built big banks smack over our old watermelon field. So we invested our money in those banks."

            "Why? Stupid, mean town."

            Grandpa Clyde sat up. "Daisy, a good farmer always puts his money back into his field. And speaking of fields, Owen."

            On cue, Robbie awakened and rubbed his eyes.

            Mr. Munson sprang to his feet, swept off his cowboy hat, and bowed low.

            "Alas, my toils are not yet complete. And so, adieu, adieu, adieu!"

            Robbie disassembled the "table." The other three men headed to the fields: Mr. Fisher with his hands in his pockets; and Mr. Munson laughing, joking, and slapping Grandpa Clyde on the back.







Saturday, October 3, 2020

Stingy Jack

Happy Saturday readers, writers, and BryonySeries fans.

In honor of October and autumn fun, here's a short story excerpt from the third installment of Before the Blood.

It's the late nineteenth century in a fishing village in northern Michigan. The gathering is an all-age harvest party at Fisher Farm. The perspective is third person, from a sheltered nine-year-old's point of view, who's at the party with her aunt and uncle.

The storyteller is Owen Munson, the village leader. He just won a bottle of "Grandpa" Clyde Fisher's moonshine for winning a pumpkin carving contest.

If you'd like to know more of the Irish lore behind this piece of fiction, visit https://www.irishcentral.com/roots/history/jack-o-lantern-turnips-ireland




            Gradually, the men arranged the pumpkins, now grotesquely carved and lit with candles, around the bonfire, which now burned lower, less brightly.

            "Owen, come git yore prize!"

            Mesmerized, Bryony watched the flickering eyes of the cadaverous lanterns.

            "Now, you young'un's know the legend of the Stingy Jack?" Mr. Munson asked.

            The reply was a chorus of. "Noooo!"

            Immersed in the mystery of the night, Bryony could only watch Mr. Munson and shake her head.

            A sly expression crossed his face, and he took a swig from his well-earned bottle.

            "Well, it just so happens Stingy Jack's legend begins with a bottle just like this."

            Mr. Munson held it up for all to see.

           "Now everyone knows," Mr. Munson dropped his voice, "that the devil makes the best moonshine around." He raised his eyes and the bottle. "No slam, Clyde!"

            "None, taken!"

            "So Stingy Jack longed for some of the devil's brew, but he didn't want to ante up for it. 'Course, he wouldn't share that information with you-know-who. So he washed his face and combed his hair and knocked on the door of hell and told the devil he wanted to buy his best spirits."

            "'Why, come in, Jack,' the devil says, setting down his pitchfork and opening the furnace door wide. 'I've got just the thing.'"

            "So Jack goes inside, drinks up the sample, and says, 'Oh, ho, devil, you have to get up early in the morning to trick Old Jack. I said I wanted to buy your best spirits.' And Jack threw down the glass."

            Mr. Munson's eyes swept over the crowd. "Now what do you  s'pose happened to poor Jack?"

            No one answered. Bryony's mouth hung loose, and she shrank lower on her hay bale..

            "Well, the devil says, 'Why, Jack, you are a clever man. I only save the best spirits for the most worthy of drinkers.' And the devil brought in a fresh glass for Jack to taste.'

            "Jacks drinks it up, smacks his lips, and again throws down the glass. 'Mr. Satan,' Jack said, 'I'm beginning to think the tales about your moonshine are false. If you don't have anything better'n this, I'll be on my way.'

            "But as Jack turns to leave, the devil grabs him by the throat. 'Now, Jack,' the devil says, 'I'll have no dissatisfied customers, especially when they are as discerning as you. Wait here."

            Mr. Munson took a gulp and swiped his mouth on his shoulder.

            "So Jack waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits. After a long, long wait, the devil trots in with a glass of the clearest brew Jack ever did see. Jack, delighted the devil finally brought forth the goods, savored that drink, sip by itty bitty sip, until he was done."

            Mr. Munson paused, grinning as wickedly as a Hoberdy lantern.

            "'Did you enjoy it?' the devil asked. "I've had better,' Jack said and turned to the door, only to find the door had disappeared into the flames, as had the walls and everything else except for him and Satan.

            "'It's time to settle your debt, Jack,' the devil softly said.

            "This frightened Jack, but he still was keen on outwitting the devil. 'Lookee here, Satan,' Jack said. 'I've somehow misplaced my wallet. If you just let me run home, I'll be back lickety-split with your money.'

            "'I'm afraid it's not that simple, Jack,' the devil replied.

            Mr. Munson took a gulp of Old Man Fisher's moonshine and a step toward the audience.

            "'You see, Jack, anyone who's tasted my prized spirits can no longer enter heaven, but because you tried swindling me, you ain't fit for hell, either.'"

            Mr. Munson moved closer to the hay hales.

            "This frightened Jack. He wished he never heard of the devil or his moonshine."

            Mr. Munson leaned close to the front row.

            "'There's only one way to pay for this, Jack. I'm gonna have to take..."

            He grabbed Freddie Betts' throat, and Freddie slid right off his bale and out of Mr. Munson's clutches.

            "Your soul! MUAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!"

              Freddie sprinted to the outhouse. With a snarl and a chuckle, Mr. Munson brought the bottle to his lips, leaned down, and scanned the faces before him.

            "Now that the devil had poor Jack's soul, he needed a place to stick it. So he sliced the top off a juicy pumpkin, gouged out some eye holes, and a nose hole, and a mouth hole so Jack could see the world he lost, stuffed Jack's soul in, and popped back the top."

           An invisible force lured Bryony's gaze to the rows of Hoberdy lanterns, their lost souls cavorting in hellfire and damnation.