EARL “TUCK” PORTER
Michillinda Beach Lodge, Muskegon County, Michigan
Wednesday, September 17, 1941
“You ever used a shotgun as a weapon?” Tuck deftly masked any sign of confused shock after his boss ran that question across the desk. What kind of favor was he expected to fulfill this time?
That conversation with Dan consumed his entire focus as he drove home at the end of the workday. It played over and over in his head like the last song heard on the radio. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the floor shifter, the road ahead shone in the headlights, but Tuck wasn’t paying much attention to it. He’d driven this route so many times, he didn’t need to think about driving. Muscle memory handled working the clutch and gas pedal, shifting gears, and applying the turn signal. Tuck was in automatic mode on another boring drive when his mind often wandered about nothing in particular and jumped from one disconnected thought to another. But not tonight. Those words gradually transformed themselves into imaginary live-action scenes. He could see the events playing out like a bad movie but without the option of editing the script. Each time, the storyline and the last take never changed. The request disturbed his conscience. The crux of it all? He figured it was probably another one of Dan’s hare-brained money schemes, which put Tuck in a lose-lose situation. He couldn’t dispel the sense that he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. Nor could he fathom why he was being singled out and wondered if this was some sort of payback. Payback for what? I thought I already paid my debt. He felt confused — even cornered.
As he pulled into his driveway and turned off the truck, he remained lost in his thoughts, trying to understand Dan’s twisted mind. Tuck felt trapped in a maze; each turn led to a dead end. It was the ticking of the engine as it cooled down that brought him back to the present time and place. Now that his brain had switched into idle, he realized he had not consciously watched the road the entire drive home. Good thing this truck knows the way, he thought grimly.
This new onus dropped in Tuck’s lap had unfolded earlier in the day while he was on a scaffold next to the stone chimney two stories up, mixing mortar. It was one of those quiet afternoons when he had comfortably settled in his space doing stonework restoration. It was a process that allowed him to stay focused, mind his own business, and do what he was good at. That day was no different — until an unexpected and unwelcomed intrusion rattled his concentration.
“Tuck!”
Like fingernails on a blackboard, Dan’s voice a knack for making one feel unnerved. “Crap. Now what?” he mumbled under his breath. Peering over the scaffold’s edge, Dan, his boss, signaled him to come down. Based on his expression, Tuck wasn’t sure what to expect. Whenever Dan made eye contact with him, he revealed nothing about his mood, disposition, or his temperament. His eyes were just two orbs focused on the empty space between them.
Seeing Dan standing there alone without the owner, an architect, or lumberyard representative was unusual. His management style rarely involved dealing with the minutiae of tasks, obsessing over details, and the crew’s daily progress. Tuck eased his way down the ladder and found Dan moving off to one side of the main lodge. While Tuck followed him, Dan kept looking around, acting nervous, checking to make sure they were alone. Once out of earshot of the others, his hushed voice said, “When you’re done today, come to my office before you leave. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Is there a problem?” Dan’s demeanor stirred Tuck’s suspicion that something was amiss. He immediately assumed there was an issue with the progress on the stonework, or with the project itself. The restoration and remodeling had gone through periodic redesigns and material changes. It almost seemed like a daily occurrence when the resort owners suggested modifications. Or they didn’t like the way something had turned out, so it needed to be redone. Everything got behind schedule. There were days when the crew decided they would only complete a certain phase by noon in order to leave enough time to tear it all down by quitting time.
In a tense voice, Dan shot back, “Just stop by the office, okay?” Then he turned and marched off back towards the main lodge.
As he watched Dan head away, Tuck muttered quietly to himself, “Well, for cripes sake, what’s with the attitude?” He shook his head, pulled out a pack of Luckys from his breast pocket, tapped out a smoke and lit up. After taking a few long drags, he flicked the butt to the ground, made his way up the scaffold to continue the job — and wondered. He knew Dan was predictably tight-lipped, kept his thoughts to himself, and wore an expression that left nothing for interpretation. Being near someone like that created unease and distrust. Tuck couldn’t help but sense something wasn’t right.
Tuck’s real name was Earl Porter. Unlike many individuals of German ancestry who had settled in West Michigan, Earl was the antithesis of the Germanic work ethic; punctuality, dedication, long hours, and a sense of order. His weathered look, sturdy build, and calloused hands showed he was accustomed to manual labor. But one’s look does not always reflect one’s passion. Earl lacked a major purpose in life and was inclined to follow any path that offered the least resistance. However, when it came to family, his heart, loyalty, and his sense of responsibility were in the right place.
In 1936, at the ripe young age of sixteen, Earl decided to drop out of high school and got a job to help his parents make ends meet. Their objections were met with, “I’m barely a ‘C’ student except in wood shop and metal shop. What good is a high school diploma right now when we can barely put food on the table?” The post-Depression years did not let up for some, and the Porter family led a hardscrabble lifestyle.
Earl was fortunate to land a job with a construction crew that did masonry work; brick-laying, concrete blocks, pouring foundations, and stonework. Since most projects depended upon an uninterrupted supply of consistent and properly mixed concrete, the crew boss took him under his wing and taught him the nuances of this task. That became Earl’s job — combining and mixing sand, cement, and water day in and day out. The work was grueling, monotonous and dull, but it earned him folding money. That’s all that mattered to him.
One day, his foreman, Walt Pearce, pulled Earl aside and assigned him to a new job. “Delbert quit. I’m giving you his old job.”
Earl asked, “You mean chinking?”
“Well, not exactly. Chinking means filling gaps between logs. The chimney here needs new concrete filler between the stones. You got the cement mixing part down pat. Now, all you need to do is make sure any loose dried mortar is removed and the gaps are filled. You up to it?”
“I’ve watched Del do it, so, yeah … I think so. But what about my regular job?”
“You’ll be doing that, too, until I can find someone else to take over. I’ll get you started on this section of the chimney. Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
Earl’s shy nature tended to make him avoid drawing attention to himself. But as he honed this new skill, his craftsmanship got the attention — and the admiration — of his crew and the property owners.
Some rumored his last name was Tucker for this particular masonry skill he’d earned a reputation. If there was a natural stone chimney in Muskegon and Oceana Counties where the mortar needed restoring, chances were Earl did the tuck-pointing. Moisture and Michigan’s freezing winters wreaked havoc on chimney mortar, causing it to deteriorate over time. It was a methodical process for Earl’s skilled hands that first required the careful scraping away of old, dry, and crumbled mortar between the stonework without disrupting the integrity of the structure. Once he was certain the old mortar was removed, he replaced it with new. And this is where Earl’s true craftsmanship came to light. If there was one trait his ancestors had bestowed upon him, it was his focus on producing high-quality results through attention to detail. He even took it a step further using lime-based mortar instead of the conventional mix that used Portland cement. This method dated back over two thousand years, which is why it was preferred for restoration of historic buildings. Earl learned it was more durable and flexible, which allowed for the expansion and contraction of masonry that occurred with the temperature changes typical of Michigan’s seasons. To make it right, however, a specific mixing ratio was required between the sand and the lime in order to achieve the perfect consistency. He could tell just by its texture when the recipe was ready, similar to how a pastry chef knows when pie crust dough is perfect. There was even a rumor among the workers that Earl knew the blend of his lime mortar was ready by the way it tasted. Perhaps he was one of those kids who ate wheat paste in kindergarten.
Earl was in his element when tuck-pointing, even though it was a slow and tedious process. It’s the one thing he was good at. Based on some people’s measure, it may have been the only thing. Among those who worked with him, he had gained the well-deserved nickname “Tuck.”
Soon thereafter, Walt secured the bid for a new construction project at a place called the Michillinda Beach Lodge. He described in some detail to his crew how it entailed adding a two-story annex to the existing lodge. This included building ten guest rooms, a small lobby, a screened-in porch overlooking Lake Michigan, and a new fieldstone fireplace.
On their first day at the site, Walt and his crew were introduced to the owners, the architect, and the site’s grounds manager, Daniel Driscoll. They soon got down to business and walked the site, reviewed the blueprints, and outlined the proposed schedule. The names and faces of this new crew were unfamiliar to Dan — except for the one they referred to as Tuck. Even though they’d never met, Dan suspected who he was. While Dan kept an eye on him during the meeting, it seemed that either Tuck didn’t know who Dan was, didn’t recognize him, or he did not want to acknowledge him.
When the meeting concluded, the owners made it clear that Dan would take the lead for answering questions, solving issues, and managing the progress with the construction. Essentially, they said, “Dan’s in charge.”
Thus began a tumultuous working relationship between Dan and Walt. Whether it was rooted in some personal resentment towards each other or a battle of egos, the tension was palpable. Regardless of the cause for their mutual disdain, Walt refused to be ordered around by a “snot-nosed 20-year-old prick” with no previous general contracting experience. It became clear to the owners that this rivalry hindered progress and deteriorated morale. Walt was given an ultimatum: quit or be fired. He announced to his men that he was pulling out of the contract and said, “Those of you who want to stay … can stay and work directly for the Michillinda. Those of you who don’t are welcome to come with me.” Half remained on the project, including Tuck. On Friday, March 7, 1941, Dan Driscoll became his new boss.
While going over a few procedural details with the remaining crew members, Dan turned to Tuck and — in front of all the others, including the owners — said, “Don’t expect to get any special favors around the job site just because we’re related. No nepotism here. We clear on that?” It shocked Tuck to hear this revelation announced out loud; his suspicions were now in the open. The condescending tone Dan used shed some light as to why his old boss pulled out of this project. That first encounter was just a prelude to how his life wouldn’t be the same.
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At shift’s end, Dan’s instructions from earlier in the day – “come to my office before you leave” – were a dissonant echo in nTuck’s thoughts. He was at a loss what to expect. His imagination played through various possibilities, wondering if he had done something wrong. Hell, I’m the only one on this crew who knows his way around stonework, he mused.This can’t be about losing my job. After punching out, he went into the office and sat down. Before Dan could say a word, Tuck spoke up. “Hey, if you’re upset with me working another job, I hope … ”
“What other job?” Dan interrupted.
“Oh. I thought you knew. On weekends, or when there’s no stonework, I pick fruit at orchards around here. You know … to help scrape by.”
“That’s not why I called you in here. What you do on your own time is your business, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work here.”
Tuck’s tension eased a bit, but he still wondered what was in store. As usual, Dan’s poker face revealed nothing. He just sat behind his desk with that un-blinking stare, studying him. Was it good news or bad news? The silence was deafening. It’s interesting, Tuck thought, how someone like him, just sitting there, not talking, can cause someone discomfort, nervousness, even guilt about something. He also wondered if Dan’s eyes ever dried out.
Without preamble, Dan finally said, “I need a favor, and this conversation does not leave this office.”
“Okay … sure … anything I can do to help. You can count on me.”
“Good. You ever used a loaded shotgun as a weapon?”
Tuck wasn’t sure he understood. He had that expression of being half-way to answering the question — mouth open but no sound coming out — when his mind switched gears and asked for a replay of what he thought he’d just heard.
Tuck asked, “You want to run that by me again?”
“Sure. You ever pointed a loaded shotgun at somebody?”
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