K.J. Stevens's Blog

harsh elements

Birds ravage the feeders. Cedars are turning orange. And it worries me.

My stomach grumbles, so I drink coffee. Breathe in the quiet. Let the energy that’s carried me this far rise and continue to educate me.

I look out the window at the water, and there I am—chipping away at an icy lake that doesn’t exist. Out in the cold. Sitting on a bucket. Warming myself with whiskey. Perch fishing. Thinking about nothing because I’ve got nothing to think about. Just the next drink. The next fish. What to eat later while I’m watching the Wings game.

Time for more coffee.

I’m back. Really, I am. Riding high from checking a task off my mental list that’s been there for years—scraping and painting the garage door.

Yesterday, blistering hot. Standing on black asphalt. Sun burning through me as I worked a wire brush and scraper, removing flaky paint from wood. Thinking of finishing—getting that fresh exterior white up—so when my wife pulled into the driveway she’d be happy with what I’d done.

But maybe not. Could be I’m just waking. From a long day on the ice.

Up with a Bloody Mary. Cooking eggs and bacon. Shaking off the remnants of an unsettling dream—one where I’m old. Domesticated. Soft. Sweating the small stuff. Creating layers of protection that simply cannot stand the test of time and the reality of harsh elements.

But it can’t be. I can smell the bacon. Taste the smooth, black coffee.

And I can see them—the birds ravaging the feeders, cedars going orange. And I can feel it—the worry.

~ KJ

air and sunlight

October 3, 2025 – 7:30 am

Near 80 degrees the next couple days. That’s grand. I’ll enjoy it at the lake. Burn the last of the gas out of the waverunners. Toss a line into the water. Pretend to read from my lounge chair. Nap under the brim of my baseball cap.

Oh, there’s work to be done. Always is. But work at the lake is different than work anywhere else. It doesn’t feel like work at all.

All this talk about nice weather. A beautiful fall. But my gut knows better. Mother Nature’s setting us up for a big, nasty winter. And I’m looking forward to it. My plan now—still so far away from the ice and snow and cold—is to take it head on. With boots and gloves. Shovel and snowblower. Four new all-terrain tires on the Defender.

It’s easy to feel unstoppable so early in a new day. One cup of coffee boosting me.

But suddenly, I wonder what the kids are doing.

One should be in class by now. Finished up with breakfast. Done walking the loop with her boyfriend. Young. In love. High school homecoming on the way. Two part-time jobs fueling college dreams that wait on the horizon while she lives wide-open. Excited by the infinite choices between today and tomorrow.

The other is soaking up sleep in his dorm before Friday classes. Something new, he says—these Friday classes. For whom, I’m not sure. I don’t question it. I know he’ll fill his day no matter what. Part-time job. Studies. Working out. He’s on the path he’s charted. Devoted to figuring it out.  

She’s sixteen. He’s nineteen. They’ve got the world by the balls. And here I am just trying to make the most of the time I have left.

And it’s moments like these when I’m alone with words, mulling thoughts, that I feel the best. My happiness. Even when the sentences seem sad.

Realize today how good you got it. That there are people in your life to care about. Think of them. Remember them. Look forward to seeing them. Especially when they come to you in air and sunlight while you’re hiding away. Just for a few minutes. At the lake. Napping under the brim of your baseball cap.

~ KJ

to the bottom

“Kali’s not nice,” he says.

“That’s right,” Kali adds.

She slides over on the booth seat. Moves away from me.

“I’m a bitch, too. I just haven’t persuaded anyone I’m bitchy enough for them.”

I lean forward. Rest my elbows on the table. Look into my glass. Stare into the beer until a foamy face appears. Elongated head. Hollow eyes. A wide grin. And I think about how it won’t be long before I’m to the bottom again. And suddenly, I can feel her energy. Kali. As far away from me as she can get. But radiating heat. Warming me. And smelling so damn good that all I want to do is bury my face in her hair and breathe. And hold her and stay that way until the day I die. So, I lift the glass. Take a long drink. Wash it away. Send it down deep. Until it reaches the knot and drowns.

“What about your little angel at the pool table?” Kali asks. “I bet she’s the real deal. Pretty, funny and smart.”

“Bet she’s a goddamned genius.”

Jake says this as he slides his glass toward me, nodding at the pitcher.

“A goddamned genius. Like one of those PBCC girls.”

I top off our glasses, but stay silent. Kali says nothing. Jake talks more about the sucker run. He’ll go tonight after the bar and shine the water, he says. He’s got a hard hat and it’s got a flashlight mounted on top. He will walk out onto the end of the big culvert. Lean over the edge. Steady himself. And he will wait five minutes in the dark. Listen to the crickets and frogs and the sound of deer navigating the swamp. Then he’ll turn on the flashlight and hope for a dying run. Because if they’re running steady at night, they won’t run long. Just some quick lovin’, he says. And the more Jake talks, the more I’m convinced that the swimming upstream has more to do with being together than it does with reproduction, life, and carrying on the species. The truth, Jake says, is that fish love like men. They fight upstream for nothing. Only to get beaten and die in the end.

~ from the novella, “Pilgrim’s Bay“

bucket fish

an excerpt

She holds the line between her thumb and forefinger. Lowers the squirming crawler into the dark green water. Watches it disappear between the bare blackened branches of someone’s discarded Christmas tree. Strands of dirty silver tinsel wave with the current as she considers all that could be down there. And why.

Back at camp. Crickets chirp. Frogs peep. She sits on a stump. Knives her in belly. Bucket clenched between her knees.

Something—an animal—breaks twigs in the woods. Her chest tightens. Back aches. She pulls the bucket closer. Crosses her arms. Watches the sunfish float in dirty water. Gills in. Gills out. And together, they wait for the big sky to finish its switch from light to dark.

~ from the short story book, DEVOTION

taking out the trash

I thought a starry sky might save me.

Five-thirty. Just dragging trash to the road. For men to take to wherever it goes.

Under us. Out to sea. Into the air.

Outer space maybe.

First a slow plane with blinking lights—a dinosaur in the sky—carrying passengers. Everyone with plans and places to be, but no control. Then a bullet—a white-hot Mike & Ike speeding just below the stars so high and quick that my brain couldn’t process it.

I’ve seen lots up there in my time.

Light streaks. Bright circles—oblong orbs blasting along.

They stop on a dime. Flash hope. Change direction in a heartbeat. Trail off without goodbye.

All that in the few times I’ve looked up and paid attention.

But even the magic of unidentified light and motion won’t lift me—not today. Waking like this so late in the season.

Restless. Unsteady. Craving something sweet.

Knowing it doesn’t matter.

Because all of this carries on—above and below—with or without me.

~ K.J.

an illusion

Yesterday. Still summer. But I took the dock out anyway.

Cool water. Light waves. My buddy, Astro the Husky, watched from the porch. Bluejays and chickadees kept busy at the feeders. Neighbors two houses down grilled meat. Not many boats out. Long stretches of cottony clouds across the sky. And I only swore a few times—drill battery went dead, dropped a wrench in the lake. Overall, it felt good. Pulling, twisting, lugging, lifting. It was late afternoon. Quiet. I had nothing else to do. So, I got all five of the ten-foot sections up and over the break wall. One by one. Stacked and lined them up under the cedars for easy set up next year.

Which will be here tomorrow. Or has already happened. I can’t be sure.

Time ticks and warps. Slips away. Just plain old evaporates.

Life really does happen in the blink of an eye. It’s here. Then gone. Here. Then gone. It does and does not exist. Close your eyes, it’s night. Open them, it’s day.

I went to bed tired. Filled to the brim with accomplishment. Disappeared for six hours into dreams, nightmares—maybe nothingness. Then woke in the exact position I fell asleep. No new aches though. No cuts or bruises. Only the simple happiness of swinging my legs over the edge of the bed to get moving.

Astro led me outside to meet the sunrise. Breathe in a new day. We checked too to make sure the dock was really there, stacked and waiting for spring. It was. He sniffed it. Peed on it for good measure.

Today it’s eerie calm. The lake looks iced-over all the way to Grand Island. For a split-second, it’s February. I’m thinking shovels, ice melt, keeping paths clean. Thanksgiving and Christmas have played out without me remembering a thing.

What gifts did I give the kids?

Then a fish jumps. Destroys the illusion. It’s September. I’m nine days away from the end of summer. At the yellow Formica table. Fingers on the keys. Mixing up ideas that are caught between seasons. Observing what is and what isn’t. Recording it.

I’ve learned now that’s all I can do. It’s my job. Life’s work. What I was put here to do.

Someone else will make sense of it all.

~ KJ

without a fire

From Infidelity

This excerpt comes from the story “without a fire” in my book Infidelity. A moment of winter stillness, where warmth and emptiness live side by side.

We’ve been skiing all day. Cross country on a sunny, warm February day. Across the fields, down through the hardwoods into the evergreens of the swamp then up across Maple Ridge. Both of us working our bodies hard, but making only the slightest sounds. Skis shooshing against snow, arms pumping poles, lungs sucking air, noses sniffling. Yet it is enough to send cottontails zigzagging into brush cover, enough to rattle the blue jays so that they caterwaul a forest-wide warning and the curious chickadees keep a close eye on us, dipping and bobbing, chirping and calling, as we make the wide circle around our property and return home.

It’s night. Kali and I are outside. The bonfire’s burning and we are ripe with the heat. Everything feels familiar and is good, but something is gone. Something is present. Things are not the same. During our time together, during our cross country trip, I have lost and gained. The unbroken snow. The naked maples. The steadfast evergreens. Frightened cottontails. Squawking jays. Curious chickadees. My wife following, as I plowed the trail. All of these things have taken and given, and I feel something has rooted itself inside. It is shapeless and fluid and unrecognizable to me. It is a knot of emptiness growing, filling my gut, occupying a sense of space that used to feel solid and sure.

…When I lift up the tarp there are only two pieces of firewood left. Small ones for kindling. I’m puzzled. Drained. Confused. So much so that I am still for a moment, thinking about where the wood might have gone.

How many fires have we had?

Why haven’t I cut more wood?

How long before it is out for good?

~ K.J.

garden city

Sun on its way down, giving one last burst of hot light before it moves away for the day. Into another time zone. For other people.

But I’m not concerned much about other people. Other time zones. Not now. Not today. Not lately. All there is and needs to be is this small world at home.

My wife with her feet in the kiddie pool. Sipping wine.

Kids running through the sprinkler. Fingers, lips, tongues stained red from superhero popsicles.

∞

I’ll pray for rain tonight. After everyone’s in bed. I hope it comes fast and long and hard. Even if that means I cannot sleep. That tomorrow will be hotter, muggier. And that I’ll be in this same chair. Smack dab in the middle of the same routine. Sweating. Drinking ice water. Saying the same things.

Because sometimes, all we need is a break. A change of temperature. Drops of rain.

It’s a fine night for a downpour. For me and my wife to sit on the front porch, under the ugly awning. Breathe deep. Say nothing. Smile. But we won’t do that if it does not rain. Instead, we’ll sit on the couch or lay in bed, crank up the fans, and watch a movie. Escape a little into the night. The dark. Away from the sun. And we’ll try to edge close to sleep. So that our pillows take us deep. To places we cannot now be. In this heat. This city. This time zone. With all this love steeped in responsibility and expectation.

∞

“If I didn’t have kids, I’d live in the heart of a big city,” she said.
She swirled her feet in the small yellow pool.
“If I didn’t have kids, I’d live in the country,” I said.
I stepped in. Relief shot up my legs, into my gut, through my arms.
She smiled.
“You’re a country bumpkin at heart.”

I sat down in the pool. Bits of grass floating. Specks of dirt floating. My wife leaned over, scooped a red-legged grasshopper out of the water and set him in the lawn. I Looked over at the kids. Our daughter, all new to this, a few weeks from turning one. Our son, four going on thirteen. Both of them laughing. Wet and aglow in the fading daylight. And I knew our talk was only that of tired parents—people in love without time for dinners and movies, nights out with friends—things people do before diapers and bills, schedules and vows. But watching the kids, I knew we didn’t want it any other way.

“We need a vacation,” I said.
“We do,” she said. “Some place warm.”
I splashed her.
“We’re already plenty warm,” I said.
“Warm, not hot,” she said, splashing me back.
“Okay. How about a place by the water? An ocean. A lake. I don’t care. Just you and me. A cabin. Sleeping in. Staying up late. Walking the beach. Swimming and—”

Just then, our daughter stole our son’s popsicle and tossed it to the ground. He threw himself down, next to it, as if struck by lightning.

“They’re beat,” she said.
“Yes. Fun in the sun. Sweet treats. All that running.”

We got up. Shared a look we used to share before we were WE and the kids were ours and life took off running with us. And I knew one day we’d have it again. Just like when I’d visit her in the city. When she’d drive out to see me in the country. But for now, there were more important things to carry.

“I’ll get her,” she said.
“I’ll get him,” I said.

And each of us carried a wet, sticky, crying kid inside. Out of the sun. Out of the heat. Away from the end of another good day in our garden in the city.

~ KJ

baxter the clown

an excerpt from the short story, Saving Turtles

“None of it matters because it’s life. Be a clown. Be a husband. Be a wife. Be a drunk. None of it matters because we’re supposed to keep crossing roads. We’re supposed to keep moving on. The center of life is about location and timing. Like my job. On one side of the road there’s Big Bay de Noc. On the other side, behind the casino, you have a thick wooded swamp. Throughout the spring and summer, hundreds of turtles try crossing the road. It’s my job to save them. To patrol the road and driveways to make sure turtles aren’t getting killed. People unhappy from seeing dead turtles don’t generally put a lot of money in the slots.”

“But why the suit?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to be Superman. And that was the only other choice. I don’t like capes. Besides, I can’t imagine the man of steel walking roadside, searching for turtles. Too much bending. Sometimes you gotta get right down there on your hands and knees. Can you see Superman doing that? A clown? That’s a different story. Clowns can do anything. You see a clown crouched on the side of the road picking up turtles, it’s easier to believe.”

~ CSP

The full text of Saving Turtles can be found in the book, Infidelity

circling 50

September 1, 2025 – 7:24 am

Morning’s too early. All wrapped up yet. Not enough blanket. Too much blanket. Numb arms. Achy legs. Toothache hips. Nightmares. I need the sleep that makes a man thoughtful, motivated—smart enough to know when to keep his mouth, eyes, and ears shut.

Another sunrise like this, orange and pink over a lake so smooth it looks frozen, and I’ll be foggy and out of sorts forever. Now, seasons change in an instant. Days flash. Right before my baggy eyes.

Limbed and trimmed trees yesterday. Burned brush. Screwed a red birdhouse to the trunk of the giant cedar. Drove to Rocket City with my wife. Groceries for two days at the lake. Twenty gallons of gas for wave runners I probably won’t ride. Windows down and moon roof open all the way back, but I still think we got buzzed from the fumes.

Good, old friends stopped over. We sat around the fire pit. They drank beer and vodka seltzers. I sipped three glasses of non-alcoholic IPA. We watched boats and pontoons. A few crazies out in the middle of it all in kayaks and tubes strung together with ropes, blasting music, laughing and splashing, shiny cans twinkling in the afternoon sun. This got us going—reveling in the debauchery, foolishness, and fun of thirty years of friendship.

For me, the party has ended. For them, not so much.

They talked about spending every evening on Venus Lake, casual drinks, getting sun, hanging out with friends after work.

They talked of a party the night before. A DJ. A throng of people. Thirty-year old scotch. Sleeping in tents.

And then, their plans for the rest of the day—a stop at Bayside Bar, then into town for drinks at the Blue Collar Tavern. Rounding out an early night, nine or ten at the latest, after all, we are all circling 50—with a visit to Billy Goat’s Pub.

My wife was in the hammock a few feet away. Listening. Wondering. I never know what she’s thinking. But I hope by now, she reads my mind.

I was thinking of power washing the cottage. Painting the garage door. Caulking cracks and crevices. Flushing the water heater. Testing the furnace. Putting away all the summer toys. Getting the dock out. And planting a few trees—a dappled willow, a poplar, a white birch.

My friends left to do their work. Roared away in a black ’69 Z28. I grabbed a Sprite. Stood in the driveway and stared at my SUV.

In the garage, I talked at Dear Abby—my pet chipmunk. She listened. Stuffed her cheeks with sunflower seeds as I cleaned the grill grates then slathered them with olive oil. When she was full and tired of me, she scurried away under the wood pile. I charred and mutilated two pounds of salmon and dried out a batch of asparagus. A sad match for my wife’s made-with-love-simply-summer-egg-salad-delight.   

But we all sat together. Ate. And the taste was there. We talked about our family, our pets, our plans.

The Midland car show.

A campus visit—NMU in Marquette.

And maybe an off-season purchase—a new boat for next year.

But most important, our after-dinner ride.

Around the lake. To Minnie’s Ice Cream Shack. For dessert. For their end-of-summer sale.

One scoop of vanilla in a cup for my daughter. A Girl Scout sugar cone for my wife. And three scoops of Mocha Rush—in a waffle cone—for me.

Enough sugar and caffeine to lift and keep me up—by firelight, under silent stars, with them.  

~ K.J.