Glen Arbor Sun

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August 28, 2003

National Park faces major decisions as spotlight focuses on D.H. Day farm

By Jacob R. Wheeler
Sun editor

At least once a day a curious tourist nudges up to the fence surrounding the D.H. Day farm to snap a photo or draw a sketch of the majestic 116-foot-long dairy barn that dominates the landscape along historic route M-109. This is one of the images that people associate with Northern Michigan, nearly as much as the great lake just to the west. In fact, the Society of Architectural Historians chose the D.H. Day farm as one of the “50 Most Significant Structures in Michigan”, alongside stalwarts like the Mackinac Bridge and the Renaissance Center.

But a flurry of recent changes to the property has sparked concern among local residents and the National Park Service, alike, that soon the farm will no longer mirror the “kingdom” that D.H. Day established at the beginning of the 20th century. Day was a lumber baron who also ran the local general store in Glen Haven, a town he all but created. He walked the three miles from town every day to inspect his prize herd of 200 Holstein cows and 400 hogs that lived on the farm.

Don Lewis is a local contractor who has owned the farm since 1973 and has worked under the auspices of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, the local branch of the National Park Service, since signing an agreement on August 31, 1984 that designated the D.H. Day farm a Category III, or private use and development area within the Park. In short, the contract stipulated that Lewis is to consult the Park before making any changes that are externally visible. Apparently in accordance with the agreement, Lewis has made extensive renovations over the last 30 years, such as rebuilding the weather-beaten roof and re-finishing the silos on the barn. Until recently he has received very little attention from the Park, citing a relationship he describes as “you leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone”.

This summer, though, that relationship has changed. Since Lewis removed the “horse barn” (one of three smaller barns behind the cattle barn), enlarged a window, made extensive changes to the interior of the farmhouse and made noise of further plans to alter the historic property, the Park and other environmental conservation groups like Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear have awakened with a start. Lewis received a letter from the Park, asking him to secure the approval of the Secretary of the Interior before commencing work that would alter the external appearance of the D.H. Day farm.

“The challenge is how to preserve the exterior so that people will able to continue enjoying it as they have the last hundred years,” said Lewis, a self-professed barn lover who grew up in the hills of West Virginia. “In the meantime this is a private property on the tax rolls. Someone has to pay the bills every year and maintain it.”

In his defense, Lewis has put tens of thousands of man-hours into renovating the property and preparing it for Old Man Winter, especially during the Park’s infancy stage when its funds were limited. Coincidentally, the day Lewis moved to Glen Arbor and drove around the bend to view the D.H. Day farm for the first time in 1970 was the very day the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore was born.

“From my standpoint the barn is in better condition today than the day it was built,” said Lewis. “Its French curves are very unique, but from an engineering standpoint, there were flaws in the original design. The barn was sagging and bending when I bought it.”

Lewis questions the wisdom of placing limits on his renovations and improvements only to maintain the historic uniformity of the structures.

“This farm is a work in progress. Many don’t know that the original barn was a two-story dairy barn without the silos. It evolved from one year to the next, but I don’t think any historian or barn lover would want to see the silos torn down and the barn restored to its ‘original’ state.”

Still, he acknowledges his obligation to the Park and to the public. “If I had decided to paint the barn iridescent orange I’m sure the phone would ring off the hook.”

Lewis maintains he had no choice but to remove the “horse barn” because of its shoddy condition. He cites an inspection by Park architects in 1987 who concluded that the “structure was apparently neither level, nor plumb, nor square even when built. (The horse barn) was obviously not part of the original architectural composition.”

“In order to maintain the barn, it would have to be rebuilt from the ground up,” Lewis said. “I could have gone up to Leland to get a condemnation sticker and orders to remove it within a week before it fell and killed someone.”

But the Park considers Lewis’ removal of the horse barn without first consulting with it a betrayal of the agreement.

He has since provided the Park with blueprints that detail his plans to rebuild the horse barn out of new, and more sound material closer to the farmhouse and build an intricate garden shed between the farmhouse and the large barn. Lewis calls the garden shed an absolute clone of what he’s identified in historic photos. Lewis has tentative plans to modernize the inside of the farmhouse and move there some day. He may also dig underground tunnels connecting the farmhouse and the barn where his construction equipment is stored, to make passage between home and work easier during Northern Michigan’s awful winters. The D.H. Day farm sits on a vast field that is subjected to Mother Nature’s worst.

According to the 1984 agreement, and confirmed by current Superintendent Dusty Shultz, the Park is not concerned with any alterations that are invisible to the public. So tunnels and modern amenities inside are fair game.

“These things wouldn’t have any affect on external appearance, so he wouldn’t alter the historic setting,” says Shultz. “We’re trying to maintain the status quo, but we also realize he has the right to make adaptations since he owns the land.”

Shultz maintained that Lewis has cooperated well with the Park since the letter of concern was sent. (The Glen Arbor Sun has appealed to the Freedom of Information Act for a copy of this letter.) “He acknowledged that he should have consulted us and was lax in doing so,” she said.

But concerns have arisen that the Park is still giving Lewis a free hand to do as he pleases, provided only that it receives prior notification. Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear, a group that protects the interest of farms in the Lakeshore (read about the reception held at the Olsen farm in the August 14 issue of the Sun), questions the Category III agreement between Lewis and the Park.

“It seems that the D.H. Day farm should be part of the National Lakeshore and federally-owned rather than in private hands, because it is such a significant historical resource,” says PHSB Project Coordinator Michael Matts. In fact, Lewis and the Park endured a decade of somewhat unpleasant discussions before he secured the farm as a private use and development area in 1984. “It would be worthwhile for the public to let the National Lakeshore and the owner know how important the integrity of the buildings, their sighting and landscape are to visitors and area residents,” Matts added. Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear seeks to play a role in negotiations between the two sides or, in the least, ensure that “the Category III agreement is enforced to the fullest extent of the law”.

Others are worried that a dangerous precedent will be set if the Park doesn’t stop Lewis.

“This is an important test,” said Jennifer Puntenneny, a former seasonal park ranger in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. “If the National Park Service is unwilling to enforce the terms of this agreement, there is little possibility that they will enforce any of the other 90 agreements with private owners. If Mr. Lewis is allowed to ignore the terms of his agreement, then we will see a building boom in the park as small cottages are torn down and replaced with suburban style mansions.”

Puntenneny was referring to the Barrett and Laura Basch farms in the Port Oneida Historic District, north of Glen Arbor, where the Park Superintendent recently gave owners permission to tear down existing, historic buildings and erect newer and larger ones in their place.

“Mr. Lewis has clearly violated his agreement,” added Puntenneny. “The Park Service has every right to buy the property and perhaps that would best serve the public interest.”

Hypothetically, the Park could claim the farm tomorrow by resorting to a Declaration of Taking. But that has never happened before in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, and is unlikely in this situation given the positive standing Lewis seems to have regained with the Park.

“The Michigan State Historical Preservation Officer says that the Superintendent must comply with the National Historic Preservation Act before she gives her approval,” Puntenneny added. “This requires that she inform the public of the proposed changes and give them an opportunity to comment.”

To date, the public has not been asked what changes the Park should let Mr. Lewis make on the D.H. Day farm, or on a broader scale, how much freedom property owners within the National Lakeshore should have. The Park is a gigantic vehicle, known to move at the pace of a snail, and last summer it opened its proposed General Management Plan up to the public, and to plenty of scrutiny, as a result.

“One of our big concerns is that if we open this up to the public, we will lose our ability to negotiate (with Don Lewis),” says Assistant Superintendent Tom Ulrich, a newcomer to the local Park this summer. “Enforcing the agreement could become difficult if we become too polar and adversarial. We want to maintain a good relationship with private land owners, because it’s easier to catch flies in honey than in vinegar.”

Oswegatchie: Day’s would-be retirement home

According to both Don Lewis, who owns the picturesque farm today, and Bill Herd, an interpreter at the National Park, David Henry (D. H.) Day planned to live in the Queen Anne-style farmhouse some day, but his wife kept nixing the move. She was intent on staying “in the city”, that is, living above the General Store in Glen Haven, roughly three miles away from the farm.

Day had the barns built in the late 1880s and 1890s and the house around 1910, to house the numerous pigs and large herd of black and white Holstein dairy cattle, which grazed on the lush alfalfa hay. The farmstead also filled the void left when his father died at a young age and the family lost the farm they had owned in upper New York State, according to Herd. Day would later come to Glen Haven on the Great Lakes as a clerk for the Northern Transportation Company and establish a booming lumber company. By the time he passed away in 1928 5,000 cherry and apple trees grew on the farm, and “D.H. Day’s kingdom”, as the Traverse City Record Eagle called it in the 1920s, spanned from the docks of Glen Haven to what’s now the public beach on Little Glen Lake.

A sign hanging over the front door of the farmhouse revealed the letters O-S-W-E-G-A-T-C-H-I-E, the name of the ship that carried Day to Glen Haven.

But the barn is what attracts the cameras and easels. It is 116-feet long, with poured concrete silos, octagonal cupolas with bell roofs and a vaulted and ogee roof with slightly flared caves to permit water drainage. Originally, the barn contained two long rows of stanchions where the cows were milked. The stanchions, and two mangers filled with fodder, stretched from one end of the huge barn to the other. Milk produced was separated for cream and fed to D.H. Day’s lumber workers. Legend has it that Day knew the name of each champion Holstein, the amount of milk each produced, and when each one calved.

The barn was in need of much repair when Lewis bought it. He stripped the roof to the rafters and repaired it using original materials. Later he completely refinished the silos.

The farm’s outbuildings included a two-bull barn, a pig house and a double corncrib. “Day was a taskmaster, and walked from Glen Haven every day to keep a watchful eye on his farm workers,” remembers 97-year-old Ray Welch who was once employed as a 40-cents-an-hour farmhand and lived in the farmhouse briefly.

In addition to being named one of the “50 Most Significant Structures in Michigan” , the D.H. Day farm is also eligible for the National Register of Historic Places, and its induction is a mere formality, Herd says.

The Empire Area Heritage Group contributed to this report

Posted by editor at 11:28 PM | Comments (0)

An Afternoon Drive on South Manitou Island

By Mike Buhler
Sun extreme sports correspondent

Driving up the Glen Arbor boat ramp at 8 p.m., Hugh Gordon is greeted by a score of laughing, curious onlookers. As he parks and exits his 1967 Amphicar, the crowd immediately gathers, and like a carnival barker, this experienced salesman greets their curiosity with a familiar patter.

“Why yes, this is the Amphicar, made in Germany. Where else can you get the complete package: boat, trailer, and car? It gets 30 miles to the gallon, and the seats fold down so you can sleep in it.” It takes Hugh no time to convince the crowd that they all need one.

We departed the boat ramp (after paying our $5 launch fee, naturally) at 11 a.m., and on the trip to South Manitou, I was able to learn the history of this man and his machine, as we headed to a picnic by the Valley of the Cedars.

The Amphicar was produced in Berlin from 1961 to 1968 by the Quandt Group, a post-war British-German cooperative. Based on a design by Hanns Trippel, the father of amphibious cars (or schwimwagens, as they are known in Germany), the car was a hit in the USA, with over 3,000 of the nearly 4,000 produced landing on our shores. Federal regulatory changes by the Department of Transportation and Environmental Protection Agency were too much for the Amphicar to overcome, so the factory closed in 1968.

Back in Detroit, on a snowy day in December, 1966, Hugh Gordon plunked down his cash and purchased his first Amphicar, and unwittingly charted the car’s course to survival. Purchased as a second vehicle to his stylish Mustang, Hugh eventually made the Amphicar his primary vehicle, as he drove the country selling Volkswagen parts to dealers and repair shops.

“I’d pull up in the Amphicar, open the bonnet, and sell parts right out the front of the car. Dealers would always remember me, and I’d get more orders because of it,” Hugh recalls. A few years later he added Mercedes-Benz parts to his line, “because I could make lots more money,” he notes.

With a degree in Political Science and Drama from The Principia, Hugh is masterful with people. The car is a natural icebreaker, but he engages total strangers so quickly that it is easy to see how successful he was as a parts salesman. However, trouble loomed.

Suddenly plagued with vision difficulties, Hugh had a series of detached retinas and even a cataract. “Here I was, at 40, and the doctors said I had the eyes of an 80-year-old.”

Fortunately surgery, a positive outlook, and his faith in God restored Hugh’s vision. Yet all the while he planned for sightless days. Knowing car parts, and knowing that he could talk on the phone, Hugh decided to move into Amphicar parts, and opened Gordon Imports in 1979.

Years earlier, in California, where Hugh had settled, he met his wife Jeanie. They wed in 1977, and Jeanie was instrumental in the formation of Gordon Imports. The couple work side-by-side, and except for this trip today, are nearly inseparable. “I wouldn’t be here without her,” Hugh says fondly. While Jeanie is happy to go on short jaunts around Big Glen in the Amphicar, she was just as happy to avoid the two-hour trip one-way to South Manitou, and read a book at their summer home on Harbor Island.

With determination, good fortune and the forging of an overseas friendship, Hugh was able to buy most of the remaining Triumph Spitfire engines that power the Amphicar, and many of the transmissions and other parts. Over the years, he and Jeanie, accompanied by one brother and an assistant at the shop, have managed to buy or remanufacture virtually every part for the Amphicar.

He shared all this history while puttering out to the island at a leisurely 5 knots, the twin nylon propellers of the schwimwagen propelling us forward, and the front tires serving as rudders. We did detour long enough to say hello to a down-bound Hunter 37 called Sundance, but its spinnaker gave it much greater speed than we could achieve.

Nearing the lighthouse at South Manitou, we took a tour of the bay, and when we saw the boat ramp, our hearts sank: it was two feet high and dry, a victim of the low water levels. After consulting a variety of perplexed swimmers and waders in the bay, we decided to give the sand a whirl. Halfway there the car dug into the sand and we were stuck. As luck would have it, Boy Scouts were at hand, and four kindly lads from Kalamazoo gave a small push, and we were onto the hard roads of the island.

For our land and sea adventure, the Amphicar was packed to the gills. In the boot (trunk, up front) were a spare propeller, come-along, five gallons of gasoline and a whole host of tools. In the back seat were our lunch, life jackets and, of course, towels, bug spray and sun-block. In my wallet, the annual National Park pass, and some emergency phone numbers. The Amphicar, titled in Michigan, is licensed for both land and water. The Park pass allows us entry to the island, and the roads belong to Leelanau County, so nary a law was broken or even bent. The roads are not of the best quality, but certainly passable, allowing us clear travel all about the island.

We were able to see historic farms and barns, Florence Lake, the wreck of the Francisco Marazon, the Valley of the Cedars (note to Road Commission: please cut the tree—I had to hike one mile), the lighthouse and several beautiful vistas across reverted farm fields. A few stunned hikers, and a wonderful and curious Park Ranger were also encountered. [Park regulations prohibit publication of the Ranger’s photo or remarks without prior approval from the Superintendent—ed.]

Upon completion of the island tour we topped off the gas tanks, put the top back up, secured the doors with watertight latches, and Hugh shifted into first gear and engaged the PTO for the propellers. The Amphicar zoomed down the boat ramp, glided effortlessly down the sand, and once in the water, Hugh put the drivetrain for the wheels into neutral, set the truest form of cruise control, and piloted us back toward Sleeping Bear Bay. With a smooth lake we made great time on the return trip, and left the windows down.

Between sips of Diet Pepsi we discussed weather, philosophy, religion, California politics and how the Gordons came to Glen Arbor.

“Oh, that was easy,” Hugh relates. “Both of my younger brothers attended The Leelanau School, and I had come up to visit them.” I was regaled with tales of Hugh and an unnamed brother pushing a junk car over the bluff of Pyramid Point, and of the Amphicar driving right into the Marazon, mooring, and a failed attempt to liberate the ship’s wheel. The veracity is not as important as is the wry humor with which the tales are told. Then, there are the legal ramifications, so one has tread carefully, and this reporter does not wish to pry.

Approaching Glen Arbor the sun lights up the wooden hulk of Le Bear Resort, and the pointing throng that gathers on shore is easy to spot. Once on land the propellers are disengaged, the bilge pump is shut off, and with the top down, we race down Harbor Highway into the sunset, smiling.

Posted by editor at 10:39 PM | Comments (0)

Local wild man raises Santa Claus’ helpers

By Forest Mullins
Sun investigative reporter

Can Reindeer fly? “Well Duh. That’s why we live so close to the Empire Airport,” says Kevin Kelly, who shakes his head in disbelief at my foolish question. “You skeptics. We have to cover the local district for the Big Man (i.e. Santa Claus).”

Can you remember expecting Christmas with anticipation and the captivation of its many mysteries? As a child did you ever look for reindeer tracks in the Northern Michigan snow on Christmas morning? Well right here in Empire we have found hard facts confirming that reindeer are real.

When local adventurer Kevin Kelly is not fighting forest fires, skiing 50k races or crafting signs for the National Park Service, he is home on his family’s ranch, where he raises a couple dogs, a horse, some ducks and five reindeer. It’s true, This reporter saw them with her own eyes -- reindeer, otherwise called captive caribou. These animals are larger than the native whitetail deer and can easily grow two antlers weighing a whopping 30 pounds each, on average.

Kevin said he was already tied down owning a horse, and didn’t want deer or elk, so he researched reindeer for about a year. He had never seen a live reindeer, himself, until he went to Interlochen to investigate a local newspaper advertisement.

Bamn! Kevin came home with two females named Blossom and Tundra. Both were pregnant with calves inside. From the beginning he learned the highlights and disappointments of raising reindeer. Blossom bore a healthy male calf named Müse, but Tundra lost her baby premature. Kevin and his wife Jenny spent a lot of time with the reindeer right after their births so they would become as comfortable as possible around humans.

Tundra is now five years old and Blossom is seven. Müse has become the largest reindeer on the farm and the most difficult to work with during his season in rut. The Kellys own two other reindeer: Pyky and Jükka, which was born this year. Their names are Finnish.

Kevin recalls the time he had to saw the antlers off of Müse. After giving him three shots Müse conveniently plopped his more-than 200-pound body right in the manure pile. Kevin straddled the reindeer and began sawing off sections of the antler to prevent infection. Meanwhile, a drowsy and subdued Müse began lifting his head from time to time. As Kevin cut the last section of the velvet-covered antler – a difficult task because of the large amount of blood everywhere -- Müse awoke. Kevin was surprised, but kept on sawing. At that moment the veterinarian called, inquiring on Kevin’s progress with Müse. Looking out the window, Jenny saw Müse running around the yard, blood squirting all over and Kevin on his back still trying to saw off the antler. The Kelly’s won’t soon forget that memorable image.

When asked what Müse is like during his season in rut Kevin responds “Would you ever kiss a grizzly bear? I would never pet that bugger on his side of the fence when he’s in rut.” Müse, like other full-grown bulls, could easily kill other reindeer and even humans. But life is a challenge on both sides of the fence because bulls tend to live shorter due to their high stress levels during the four-month rut, or hormone-driven mating season.

The saying, “It takes one to know one” fits Kevin Kelly and his reindeer like a glove. Kevin believes he was once a reindeer and that he must have done something pretty naughty to have returned to the world in human form. “The two bumps on my head that my mom claims are signs of the devil are nothing more than stunted antlers,” he claims.

Kevin makes no secret of the five-star menu he chooses for his reindeer. “It’s a mixture really,” he says. “Besides the candy canes, hot chocolate, buttered rum and peppermint schnapps, I give them alfalfa, maple leafs, cedar bows and grain mix.” His reindeer also eat 600-800 pounds of apples a year.

Was it really necessary to ask what he does with what comes out the other end? With Kevin, yes. If you still don’t believe in reindeer you definitely won’t believe what Kevin does with his large supplies of reindeer droppings. He makes “Cari-POO-lery”. Kevin needed some cash in his pockets, so he sold his first reindeer drop earrings in the front of Art’s Tavern in Glen Arbor. Soon the word got out like wildfire, and Kevin was selling them faster than his animals could produce them. “Honestly, I don’t know what the big stink is about!” Some people still claim they are (crappy, -Ed.) earrings, but Kevin isn’t offended. Each year people receive Cari-POO-lery as presents or stocking stuffers. Even Jay Leno owns a pair.

Earrings aside, the time has come for the Kelly family’s reindeer to pay dividends. Kevin may introduce his beasts at a “show” this fall, and you may even find them giving rides at public venues like the Grand Traverse Mall or Crystal Mountain Resort when the snow comes. Or just wait until Christmas Eve (it’s coming soon, folks) and listen for a clatter on your roof. But only if you’ve been good this year, of course.

Posted by editor at 09:44 PM | Comments (0)

Fresh Food for People In Need: The Story of a New Partnership

By Bronwyn Jones
Sun contributor

This summer something strange and wonderful is happening at food pantries in Leelanau and Grand Traverse Counties. People in need of emergency food supplies are receiving nutritious, fresh foods grown on farms nearby. From lettuce and carrots to beans and potatoes, healthy food grown by dozens of area farmers is finding its way to food pantries at a time of increasing need.

So, how did this happen? What’s going on? And how can you get involved in helping the most-needy among us?

The Fresh Food Partnership was formed last February by a diverse group of nonprofit organizations concerned about the growing number of people with emergency food needs and the decreasing number of local farms. Prodded by a persistent volunteer, the United Way of Northern Michigan, Northwest Michigan Human Services Agency, Land Information Access Association and Michigan State University-Extension combined efforts to develop a fairly simple, but effective three-part program: 1. Raise money from people of means in our region; 2. Buy fresh food from area farmers at fair market value; and 3. Distribute the food to people in need through local food pantries.

This summer, the Fresh Food Partnership began working to put the program in motion. The response has been both enormously gratifying and heartbreaking.

Here’s the heartbreaking part. The U.S. Census estimated that 13,589 people in our six-county area were living at or below the poverty line in 2000. That number has increased every year since the 2000 Census. With the exception of seniors and small children, most of them were working. However, hunger reaches much farther.

The insidious problem for too many folks in our gorgeous resort area is “food insecurity”. Many families know they can’t afford to lose their home or vehicle, but they don’t have enough working hours to meet all the bills, so they skimp on food. “Food insecurity” means a household can’t provide for all its food needs, or has had significant difficulty acquiring food in socially acceptable ways. People suffering from food insecurity may also be involuntarily hungry because they can’t afford groceries.

In 2002 well over 65,000 people were forced to turn to the 26 food pantries of the Northwest Food Coalition in our six-country region (Antrim, Benzie, Grand Traverse, Kalkaska, Leelanau and Wexford Counties). Yet those pantries represent barely half of the pantry and community meals programs active in northwest lower Michigan. Measures taken so far in 2003 show that the need is growing. All food pantries and the state food bank supplies report dwindling supplies.

What about the farmers? There are over 1,160 small farms in our six-county area. Yet, most of these farmers cannot support their families through farming alone. As a result, many farmers sell their land for development. There is an urgent need to support the folks who grow our food and who strive to preserve farming as a viable way of life. So why not raise money to pay farmers top dollar for their produce and provide folks dependent on pantries with a consistent supply of nutritious, fresh food?

So here’s the gratifying part. After a well-attended press conference early last spring, generous donations started coming in from dozens of individuals and organizations. By passing the collection plate one Sunday, a church in Traverse City raised over $500 for the effort. The Shumsky Foundation provided a $1,000 contribution. In June, an “Empty Bowls Hunger Benefit” was sponsored by the Oryana Food Co-Op and the Grand Traverse Potters and Sculptors Guild in Traverse City. Members of the Guild donated hand crafted ceramic bowls and Oryana donated soup and bread. That month, people purchased more than 200 bowls of soup for $10 each and got to keep those beautiful bowls. All of the money collected in this way was donated.

With a total of $6,000 in contributions and many pledges of volunteer help, we began buying produce from local farmers in late June, concentrating this first summer on Leelanau and Grand Traverse Counties. Shopping three days a week at the Leland and Traverse City farm markets, we are providing fresh, and often organic, fruits and vegetables to food pantries in Suttons Bay, Northport and Burdickville in Leelanau County, and to three pantries, including the Goodwill Inn in Grand Traverse County.

We hear that the joy and gratitude of people visiting the pantries is tremendous. The Acme Christian Thrift Store & Pantry reports that the number of people coming for food has doubled since the regular arrival of the fresh food. In addition to being fed well, many people are experiencing the joy of truly fresh-from-the-farm food for the first time. At the Goodwill Inn some people had never taken the husk off an ear of corn before. A little boy marveled that carrots had tops and were pulled out of the ground. A woman said she was going to make a salad for the first time in a long time

In addition, generous souls have donated money to buy animals at the Northwestern Michigan Fair, supporting the 4H kids as well as the hungry. On Labor Day weekend the meat from five pigs and a steer (who have also been generous, albeit involuntary, donors) will be distributed to needy families.

It is a modest beginning, but the Fresh Food Partnership and its many donors and volunteers are making a real difference in peoples’ lives. Perhaps you can help too.

Anyone who has donated canned or packaged food to a local pantry food drive knows that good feeling you get from giving. Feeding hungry people is simply one of the most gratifying things we can do. Through the Fresh Food Partnership, we have a tangible way of helping increase local markets for farmers while putting more nutritious, fresh food into the hands of people in need.

To find out more about the Fresh Food Partnership, you can visit the web site at www.freshfoodpartnership.org. Brochures and other information can also be requested directly from the Land Information Access Association, 324 Munson Avenue, Traverse City, MI 49686; phone 231-929-3696. All contributions are tax deductible.

Posted by editor at 08:47 PM | Comments (0)

Decomposition at the Cottage

By Jim Coleman
Sun contributor

Cottages have piles of crossword puzzle books, boxes of revered games, and dog-eared novels slouched in pine-board bookcases. A good addition to these summer amusements might be poet W.D. Snodgrass’s De/ Compositions (Graywolf, 2001). T.S. Eliot remarked that poetry was “a superior amusement,” and Snodgrass’s book is in that vein. It could fill a good stretch of languid summer time, and some winter moments before a crackling wood stove, for that matter.

W.D. Snodgrass was a Michigan poet when he won the Pulitzer Prize in 1958 for Heart’s Needle, and he is the author of my favorite lyric poem, “April Inventory.” His De/ Composition draws on his lifetime devotion to poetic craft to study how to make good poems into bad ones. The book is subtitled “101 good poems gone wrong.” Will this pursuit catch on? Will the clack of Scrabble tiles be replaced by the scritch-scratch of de-composition on summer evenings? Probably not, and yet there is something seductive about watching Snodgrass take a poem and ruin it. Robert Lowell’s “Skunk Hour” becomes “Raccoon Time.” Why is this first title right, and the second notoriously bad? De/ Composition presents us with many such mysteries, and explores the awfulness of the almost-right, and the humor inherent in the sentimental or the cloying.

Snodgrass breaks the book into five sections; each section indicates the type of violation to be perpetrated upon some good poems. Poems fail, the book argues and demonstrates, by being abstract instead of concrete. Secondly, they crash for the reader when the language carries undercurrents unintended by the author. Next, we can observe that they fail when the “voice” isn’t honed, and they annoy rather than please when their “music” is out of tune, just like an off-key voice in the choir.

Finally, poems try our patience when they miss the mark, even by a little, structurally or climactically. Snodgrass produces dazzling doozies of De/ composition to illustrate.

Is it time for you to make a hash of Tennyson, or to write your improved Shakespeare? Is this “superior amazement” just waiting to fill your idle hours, when the sun’s too hot or the jet ski is out of gas? Snodgrass suggests that “the secret of being perfectly dull is to answer all the questions.” Do you want to practice deep-sizing poems of mystery and the tragic with your bold rewrites? Is that a way to while away a summer hour?

Snodgrass insists that paraphrase does not capture the poem. Here are two pairs of lines, the first from William Carlos Williams’s “Nantucket,” the second a Snodgrass De/ composition. Notice how easy it is to lose the feel of the poem. It is gone in an instant in the second version:

1) Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

2) Flowers through the open window
purple and golden

Or perhaps you prefer the second version? Why would you? Such are the questions Snodgrass’s 101 De/ compositions raise. Try your own version of #1, and see if you can improve the original.

Here are a couple of lines from John Berryman, followed by De/ composition:

I am the little man who smokes and smokes
I am the girl who does now better but.

I am the ordinary man with unhealthy addictions.
I am a young woman who does things against her conscience.

If in both sets of examples, you like the second version better absolutely, search around for your game of Sorry, or fix the tractor. De/ composition is not for you.

Posted by editor at 07:51 PM | Comments (0)

Labor Day’s meaning lost amidst beach supplies

By Jacob R. Wheeler
Sun editor and occasional columnist

What is marked in your calendar for Labor Day Monday: a day on the beach; a barbecue on the deck; a cocktail party in the garden?

How about 12 hours toiling on the assembly line in a hot factory? Or maybe you’d like to march in a picket line from dawn until dusk with a heavy sign in one hand and a helmet in the other, just in case the police show up to break your strike.

Catch my drift?

Fact is, very few of us understand what this holiday is really about, or why and to whom we should express thanks for the eight-hour workday, for weekends off and for those vacations that find us tanning on the beach, content with our lives.

I’ll admit it. I didn’t know how Labor Day came to be celebrated in the United States, beyond an inclination that some guys in blue collars had it rough a long time ago. So I researched the Internet for a historical perspective and discovered along the way that Labor Day’s significance is not relegated to history. It jumps out at us every day -- from the pages of a newspaper, from the sweat dripping down a roadside construction worker’s back, or from the sight of dilapidated homes in every corner of this rich country.

Here, then, is a synopsis of how Labor Day came to be declared a federal holiday, courtesy of several websites:

“In 1893, in the midst of a nationwide economic depression, George Pullman, president of the Pullman railroad sleeping car company located in the Illinois town of the same name, laid off hundreds of workers and forced wage cuts on others even while rents in the company town remained the same. The American Railway Union came to the cause of the workers, who went on strike for higher pay and lower rent, and railroad workers across the country boycotted trains pulling Pullman cars. Rioting, pillaging and burning railroad cars ensued.

“Nervous executives convinced United States President Grover Cleveland to declare the strike a federal crime and deploy 12,000 troops to squash the rebellion. Deputy marshals shot two men in Kensington, near Chicago. Pullman workers were forced to sign a pledge stating that they would never again unionize. Meanwhile, union workers in New York City took an unpaid day off in September, 1892, and marched around Union Square to drum up support for a national labor day.

“As 1894 was an election year, Cleveland’s harsh methods made the appeasement of America’s workers a top political priority. In the immediate wake of the bloodshed in Illinois, legislation was rushed unanimously through both houses of Congress, and the bill arrived on President Cleveland’s desk just six days after his troops had broken the Pullman strike.

Thus, Labor Day was born.

“In 1898 Samuel Gompers, head of the American Federation of Labor, called the new holiday ‘the day for which the toilers in past centuries looked forward, when their rights and their wrongs would be discussed … that the workers of our day may not only lay down their tools of labor for a holiday, but upon which they may touch shoulders in marching phalanx and feel the stronger for it.’”

And yet Labor Day for us, more than a century later, has little to do with blood, sweat and sacrifice. It is known as the last weekend of summer; a chance to relax on the beach and tone that bronze hide before driving south and returning to the office. Yet every one of us has benefited from this country’s labor movement, and ought to notice those still suffering.

Many of us live in comfort and prosperity, at a time and in an empire known for “the good life”. But we still lack health insurance across the board. We still lack public transportation for those who can’t afford a car. We still fear that our employers are releasing poisons into the air and groundwater that may slowly kill us. And we still lack respect for those who truly “work for a living”.

We have a long way to go.

Jacob Wheeler is the founding editor of the Glen Arbor Sun. He can be reached via e-mail at jacobrwheeler@hotmail.com

Posted by editor at 06:55 PM | Comments (0)

Leelanau County on the Cheap: Focus, Empire

By Ashlea Turner
Sun staff writer

This is a new column devoted to budget travelers who enjoy fresh food and quality time spent off the beaten path in Leelanau County. While following this advice, the savvy traveler will spend less than $25 a day (including tax and tip) on food and have plenty of adventures.

A Saturday spent in Empire will not only provide the budget-minded traveler with a belly full of culinary treats, but also more than enough places to explore and scenic vistas to witness. Empire is most enjoyable on foot or bicycle so first park your car and begin to relax.

It’s important to arrive in Empire early on a Saturday morning so that one can purchase the freshest produce from the Farmer’s Market next to the Post Office on the North Side of Front Street. Arriving between 8 and 9 will allow the shopper to select the most perfect peaches or blueberries. Pick up a small bag of perfectly ripe peaches for about $2.50 and stay for a bit to chat with the farmers and see the locals select the freshest zucchini and Roma beans. Enjoy one (or two, they are so tasty) of these peaches with breakfast and save the rest for snacks or for tomorrow’s excursions.

There are many choices for a great breakfast in Empire, including fresh baked goods from Grandma Lu at the Farmer’s Market, or a more substantial meal from either the Village Inn or Joe’s Friendly Tavern. To keep breakfast a bit lighter, but heavier on the fresh ground coffee, try Moon Dog on La Core St. to begin your day. Order a cup of coffee for $1.25 (a steal) and a fresh cherry scone for $2.00, don’t forget your gorgeous peach to round out the meal, and you’ve got breakfast for $5.95 with many peaches to spare. So that leaves us with $19.05 left in piggy bank, ready for the day.

It’s time to venture back downtown to explore the shops and head for the beach before lunchtime. There are a few “must-stop” shops in Empire, including the antique store, Miser’s Hoard, the art gallery, Secret Garden, the furniture store, Empire Heirloom Furniture Co. and the folk art shop, Gorte’s Woods ‘n Things. Walking West on Front Street, one first comes upon Miser’s Hoard, a wonderful place to discover unique antiques in an inviting space. Take time to talk with Paul and Heidi Skinner, the warm and witty proprietors of the shop. Continuing on down the North side of Front St., one will find the Secret Garden, a wonderful collection of unique handmade gifts and spirited artwork. The jewelry case is not to be missed.

After crossing La Rue St. (the Street St, funny, eh?), the Empire Heirloom Furniture Co. is immediately on the right. Spend some time looking at the finely crafted furniture and Up North treasures. It’s getting to be late in the morning now and a perfect time for a quick swim before a leisurely lunch back downtown. Follow the cool Lake Michigan breezes a couple of blocks West to the Public Beach. Find a spot to sit and relax for a bit after your shopping spree and to get thoroughly warmed in the sun before jumping into Lake Michigan. If you’re not quite brave enough for the often chilly, but invigorating, waters of Lake Michigan, take a dive in the warmer South Bar Lake. There is plenty to do at this beach, including beach volleyball, exploring the complete playground, sand castle making, beach walking and, of course, swimming and lounging.

After working up an appetite at the beach, head back downtown to Joe’s Friendly Tavern for lunch. ‘The Friendly,’ as some locals like to call it, is located on the South side of Front St., next to Deering’s Market, the local grocery store. They’ve got something for everyone, including burgers, salads, Mexican food, sandwiches, hearty and fresh soups, complete dinners and a full beverage selection. I recommend the Homemade Vegetarian Cake Sandwich because it is fresh, healthy and extremely filling. It is “a blend of rolled oats, dried cherries, sweet corn, red onion, red beans, garlic, tomato, grilled and served on a fresh-baked cracked wheat roll.” Delicious and affordable at only $6.00. The burgers are also famous and ground fresh every day. A hamburger and fries, the “Burger Plate,” is also only $6.00. Take your pick. All one needs is a big glass of water and time to enjoy the comfortable setting. After leaving a tip of about 20 percent, we still have $11.05 left for dinner and a snack today.

It’s time to burn off lunch and enjoy the promised beautiful vistas so head south out of town, hike up hilly Wilco Rd., turn right at the top and you find yourself at the Empire Bluffs Trail Head, part of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore (Editor’s note: The $7 National Park entrance fee is not included in the day’s budget.). Keep hiking up and through gorgeous hardwood forests and eventually you will find yourself at the top of Empire Bluff. Take some time to enjoy the amazing view before heading back into town for a treat. (Make sure to bring some water with you on a warm day.)

Hiking back into town on Michigan Ave. will bring you past the delightful Gorte’s Woods ‘n Things, a mecca of folk art and curiosities. You can’t help but stop and look at the beautiful gardens of plants and art, and if you’re lucky, Evelyn and Jerry Gorte will be outside to tell you about their crafts.

Does ice cream sound good right about now? Then Tiffany’s Ice Cream and Cookies is your choice for some ice cream and a trip back in time. The lemon sorbet is the number one pick for a refreshing treat that’s not rich, but perfect for a hot summer day. A small cone only costs $1.75, so now the piggy bank has about $9.30 left.

The afternoon in Empire has many possibilities depending on the weather and the traveler’s tastes. For a look into the history and culture of Empire, a trip to the Empire Museum Complex on La Core St. is a top priority. The museum is open daily in the summer 1-4 p.m., except Wednesdays. September through October, weekends only. The Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore Visitor’s Center on M-72 just east of downtown is great for exploring the natural and built environment surrounding Empire. There is also a small museum of stuffed indigenous creatures, including a lynx and a flying squirrel. Both of these explorations are free, but donations are accepted.

It’s getting to be dinnertime in Empire and like lunch, Empire has several dinner possibilities, including pizza at Deering’s Market and dinner at Joe’s Friendly Tavern. For a pub-style meal, choose the Village Inn on M-22. The “V.I.” as the locals like to call it, has much to offer including pizza, complete dinners, sandwiches, grinders, burgers, salads and lots of great appetizers. The “Sandpiper” is considered the “Village Inn” classic sandwich. It’s a hot turkey sandwich with onion, slaw, and swiss on a sourdough bun. The Plate comes with french fries, tater tots, onion rings or cole slaw for only $6.50. It’s just within budget, tasty and extremely filling. Eat up!

So that empties out our Empire piggy bank after a generous tip, but remember, we’ve still got plenty of peaches to eat and a sunset to catch. See you back on the beach.

Posted by editor at 05:57 PM | Comments (0)

Zebra mussels are here to stay

By Christina Campbell
Sun staff writer

It was only a matter of time. For years, Glen Lake has been the last holdout against the Leelanau County zebra mussel epidemic. But this summer, swimmers are seeing native Glen Lake clams coated with the mussels. These massing molluscs have now infected every main recreational lake in the county. And although we may be able to slow their advance and minimize their scope, zebra mussels are here to stay.

Lake Leelanau, infected in 1996

The adult zebra mussel, or Dreissena polymorpha, is less than two inches long. Its stripes vary in color but never leave the dull end of the spectrum. In the palm of your hand, it’s just another boring bivalve. But give it a spawning season in clean, calm, oxygen-rich water, and the deceptively innocuous zebra mussel will tag-team with others of its kind to mob lake and river bottoms, altering entire ecosystems.

A female zebra mussel produces one million eggs per year. The resulting larvae are the diameter of a human hair and disperse easily through water. Bilges, bait buckets, fishing gear, or scuba equipment -- anything that holds even a miniscule amount of water -- can be a zebra mussel larvae vector. So you should wash and thoroughly dry boats and water toys inside and out before transporting them into new water bodies.

Adult zebra mussels are less subtle invaders than their larvae. If you find adult mussels clinging to your boat, help to control their spread by scraping them off and disposing of them in a very dry area. (In humid conditions, they can survive several days out of the water.) You might also see zebra mussels attached to buoys, docks, plants and particularly lazy crayfish and turtles. In Leelanau lakes their favorite substrate is our native clams. First a few pioneering zebra mussels find a foothold, and then more mussels pile on top of them; in large lakes, colonies more than a foot thick are not unusual.

Little Traverse Lake, infected in 1998

Native to the Caspian Sea and Ural River, zebra mussels spread across Europe more than a century ago via canal construction. Then came the transatlantic shipping era. Vessels from freshwater European ports arrived in the Great Lakes carrying ballast water full of zebra mussel larvae. When the ships picked up their American cargo, they dumped their ballast into the Great Lakes. The first North American zebra mussels were seen in 1988. They appeared in Lake St. Clair, a small lake connecting Lake Huron and Lake Erie. By 1990, they had spread to all the Great Lakes. In parts of Lake Erie, there are more than one million zebra mussels per square meter.

Cedar Lake, infected in 2000

Zebra mussels have a devastating impact on our native mussels. Clams covered with zebra mussels cannot feed, breathe, move, grow, or reproduce efficiently. Could you? Thousands of zebra mussels might layer up on one native mussel, often quadrupling the clam’s initial weight.

While the native clams’ appetites diminish, zebra mussels continue to feed heartily, sucking up the algae that would normally go to the clams, snails and small fish. Because one mussel can filter food out of up to a gallon of water per day, an infested lake or river becomes very clear very quickly. Extremely dirty lakes like Lake Erie can benefit greatly from the zebra mussels’ purifying powers. But according to Meg Woller, Leelanau Conservancy Stewardship Director, “There’s a flip side to water clarity … The water is clear because there’s no food.” When native invertebrates and small fish starve away, larger lake-dwellers need to look harder for a meal. Zebra mussels are fraying the food web.

As a food source themselves, zebra mussels are the twinkies of the freshwater world -- tasty and filling, but devoid of nutrients. Fishermen describe pulling in sickly, starved whitefish with bellies full of zebra mussels.

Zebra mussels directly impact our own species as well. They clog city water-intake lines and other industrial facilities. The pipes at one Michigan power plant were victimized by 700,000 zebra mussels per square meter. Farms and golf courses are vulnerable as well, via irrigation. Boaters suffer increased drag and engine damage from attached mussels. Navigational buoys sink under the colonies’ multi-ton weight. Encrustations damage steel and concrete bridge supports. Shipwrecks, dock pilings and other underwater artifacts deteriorate when covered by the mussels. Tourism suffers when zebra mussel waste creates algal blooms, foaming and fish kills.

We have no good weapons for fighting the zebra mussel war. These adaptable molluscs put up a tough fight. Physical removal is tedious, damages underwater structures, and is seldom permanent, except in very new colonies. Chemical attacks damage innocent organisms. Boater education does slow the spread of the mussels, but only for so long, as seen in the case of Glen Lake.

Glen Lake, infected in 2002

Because the Glen Lake zebra mussel infestation is yet young, physical removal is still a viable way to control the population. If you see a clam or plant with zebra mussels attached to it, scrape off the mussels. They attach to their substrates via byssi, or dark mucous-laden threads. When you pull the zebra mussels off a clam, the byssi usually stretch and break. The ripping of its byssal threads kills the mussel; it’s like you having your guts ripped out. Try to contain the dead mussels in a bag or other enclosed container, just in case a few of the beasts escaped with their byssi unbroken (that is, with their guts intact).

Posted by editor at 04:00 PM | Comments (0)

August 14, 2003

Personal Watercraft: lake lice or a harmless thrill?

By Christina Campbell
Sun staff writer

What do you think of when you hear “Personal Watercraft?” A Jet Ski®? A Sea-Doo®? A Wave Runner®? A shallow-draft, aquatic craft propelled by a water jet drive and capable of achieving planing speeds? Or do you just cover your ears and wait for the whine to dissipate?

Not all PWC are created equal, but neither are their operators. Jet skiers have rescued me from my capsized sailboat. But they have also cut me off, forcing my peaceful sails into sharp turns, and laughed and gone screeching by as I clung to the pontoon of my disabled craft. I’ve seen jet skis chasing families of ducks. This all begs the question: does the machine make the man or the man make the machine?

People either love or hate Personal Watercrafts. PWC are useful and fun and easy to operate. PWC are loud and dirty and dangerous. PWC are just another type of motorboat. PWC are a new breed of obnoxious “thrill craft.” So who’s right and who’s crazy?

Take the two top contenders in the ‘To PWC or Not to PWC” question. On the left we have the Bluewater Network (“Inspiring individuals to protect the earth’s finite and vulnerable ecosystems”). On the right is the billion-dollar PWC industry, represented mainly by the American Watercraft Association (“When your right to ride is threatened, the AWA swings into action!”) and the Personal Watercraft Industry Association (whose acronym PWIA is also forced, rather alarmingly, into “People who love Water Invested in America”).

These groups have been duking it out over the PWC issue for years. Bluewater compiles alarming statistics on the detrimental effects of personal watercrafts. Then the AWA and PWIA disparage these statistics and add some pro-PWC facts of their own. While Bluewater and the PWC industry take turns punching holes in each others’ arguments, every year 100,000 new PWC appear on our nation’s waterways.

The most contentious personal watercraft issues are pollution, wildlife impact, noise and safety. Both Bluewater and the AWA/PWIA team selectively cite studies that support their PWC stances, while ignoring studies that don’t. Bluewater, however, seems able to come up with a wider variety of studies which indicate the dangers of PWC, whereas the AWA and PWIA cling to the same three or four studies that happened to show that PWC have no effect on sea grass, waterfowl flushing or water quality. In general, AWA/PWIA’s arguments are defensive and skirt the real issues -- two classic signs of a guilty conscience.

Pollution

Statistics vary, but anti-personal watercraft sources pretty much agree that a two-hour "thrill" ride or a leisurely day ride on a two-stroke, 100-horsepower PWC emits over three gallons of unburned gas and oil directly into the water, enough to cover the surface of a 10-acre pond. According to The California Air Resources Board, one hour on a typical jet ski produces more smog-forming emissions than a modern car emits in one year. This is more than twice as much pollution as a two-stroke outboard motorboat of comparable horsepower.

But here the AWA weighs in. The organization insists that “there is no difference between similarly powered two-cycle engines in PWC or in an outboard.” Bluewater disagrees, but unlike the AWA, Bluewater supports its stance with facts: PWC engines have higher emissions than outboard motorboats with similar two-stroke engines, because they are physically smaller than outboard engines of the same horsepower, so PWC engines must run at a higher speed to achieve said horsepower. PWC also operate at higher average throttle settings.

So what happens to the hydrocarbons once they leave the PWC? According to the AWA, these emissions are not significant because they evaporate relatively quickly from the water into the air, instead of sticking around forming oil films or slicks on the water. However, Bluewater says that “studies from Michigan State University show that two-stroke engine emissions inflict the most damage to the aquatic environment within 24 hours.” This damage window opens most widely in shallow, remote shoreline waters--the areas most frequented by PWC. In shallow areas hydrocarbons from two-stroke engines can more easily destroy wildlife and water quality, by reaching the organisms that form the foundation of our food chain, such as algae, zooplankton and fish eggs.

In 2002, marine engine manufacturers responded to pressure from the Environmental Protection Agency and began to market cleaner four-stroke personal watercrafts and direct-injected (DI) two-stroke PWC. According to the AWA, “By 2006, the recreational watercraft fleet (including PWC) will show a 75 percent reduction in emissions.”

Bluewater, unwilling to give its enemy even the smallest pat on the back, immediately points out that with more than a million older-model PWC already operating in the United States, “even if every new PWC sold were equipped with the new technology (which is clearly not the case) it would take nearly 12 years to replace all the dirty two-stroke PWC.”

In the meantime, the PWC technology race becomes a game of Pick Your Poison. Even the new DI two-stroke engines still emit at least seven times more hydrocarbons than do four-stroke engines. These DI two-strokes also emit more formaldehyde than both standard two-strokes and four-strokes. But then, four-strokes emit more carbon monoxide than do DI engines. What’s an environmentally conscientious thrill seeker to do?

Wildlife Impact

Regarding wildlife impact, the AWA declares, “The most recent studies show that there is no difference between PWC and other boats. . .” But Bluewater names biologists who have, in fact, documented destructive impacts specific to personal watercrafts. Because PWC have shallow drafts and no rudders, they can speed about in remote, shallow areas that are inaccessible to conventional boats. It is to these sensitive areas that wildlife often retreat to escape the deeper-water vessels. Moreover, unlike traditional craft that move linearly from point to point, personal watercraft tend to circle in one area--inhibiting flushed wildlife from returning to their feeding or nesting areas. Buffer zones are a nice idea but can be difficult to enforce. Slippery and persistent, PWC are known in some circles as “lake lice.”

Noise

Depending on speed, distance and engine strokes, personal watercrafts can be as loud as garbage trucks, air compressors or rock concerts. Their engine noise may reach 102 decibels (dB) -- the American Hospital Association recommends hearing protection for sounds above 85 dB.

You can almost feel a foot stamping as the AWA stubbornly declares, “Sound testing shows that PWC are not, in fact, louder than other conventional motorboats.” But later on the same web page, the AWA concedes to noise critics by saying that "[New technologies make PWC] probably anywhere from 60 to 75 percent quieter than they were just a few years ago." Yet according to Bluewater, the PWC industry has yet to show data that support this claim.

In another concession that contradicts its claim that PWCs are not inordinately loud, the AWA supports 100-foot buffer zones from the shore. But the Noise Pollution Clearinghouse has shown that a PWC heard at 80 dB from 20 feet distant can move to 160 feet away and still be heard at 65 dB.

And decibels don’t address the varying pitch of personal watercrafts. Engine noise increases each time the jet drive emerges from the water, as happens when a PWC goes over a wave or makes a sharp turn. This pitch fluxes are more distracting than the constant hum of a conventional motorboat whose engine never leaves the water.

Furthermore, PWC noise lacks low-frequency sounds that can be heard by underwater wildlife, which often can’t detect the approach of a PWC until it is too late.

Safety

A San Francisco Marine Patrol officer describes personal watercrafts as, “very easy to purchase and very dangerous to operate.” Only about 15 percent of all registered boats in the U.S. are PWC. Yet they are involved in almost 40 percent of all boating accidents.

The PWIA explains these numbers away with hopeful and vague statements like, “the industry believes that most PWC owners operate their craft in a responsible, environmentally friendly manner. . .” The AWA uses an apples-to-oranges logic when addressing PWC’s dubious safety record: “Despite their reputation, PWC are not the deadliest boats in the water. According to United States Coast Guard (USCG) statistics, “In 1998 alone, 115 people died in canoe or kayak accidents, as compared with 78 PWC deaths in the same year.”

However, the leading cause of canoe/kayak accidents is capsizing, while the leading cause of personal watercraft accidents is collision with another vessel. PWC operation obviously threatens the safety of other people in addition to the operator. Even the new, cleaner PWC models still lack certain features that would increase personal watercraft maneuverability and safety: brakes, a clutch, or off-throttle steering. If a PWC rider instinctively releases the throttle to avert a collision, steering the machine becomes impossible, and death comes not by drowning (easily mitigable with life jackets) but by “violent blunt force trauma.”

Nevertheless, the AWA publicizes personal watercrafts as ideal for water search and rescue, touting their maneuverability and shallow draft. However, park rangers note that PWC have an unstable platform and limited storage space, and they lose engine thrust in white water; these attributes greatly limit their effectiveness in rescue operations.

So maybe PWC don’t have much to recommend them. However, because it’s impractical and possibly unfair to dismiss PWC entirely, outright personal watercraft bans are extremely rare. Special watercraft rules (speed limits, no-wake zones, and boat launch restrictions) are more common. For instance, The Michigan Marine Safety Act prohibits operating a PWC at higher than “no wake” speed within 100 feet of any dock, raft, swimmer, skier or anchored boat, or within 150 feet of another vessel underway (other than another jet ski).

If you witness irresponsible PWC operation, contact your local law enforcement. You can further ensure the safety and cleanliness of your waterways by only renting or buying jet skis with four-stroke engines. Or better yet, redefine Personal Watercraft to mean your sailboat, kayak or any vessel that puts you on equal terms with the elements.

Posted by editor at 11:06 PM | Comments (0)

Heart of a hobo beats inside 90 year-old Honor Man

By Jane Greiner
Sun staff writer

Almost as soon as I met Clive Haswell, 90, of Honor, he quoted a little poem. I had asked him about his hobo days and he said it brought this to mind:

The skunks they have in Wyoming
Smell just as bad as ours.
The odor sneaks into the cabin
And lingers there for hours.

That was just a glimmer of the gold mine of poetry and experience he began to reveal as we talked.

“I’ve been making poetry since I can remember,” he says.

The longtime area resident grew up on Aral Road. He attended the one-room Platt school from “Chart School” (our kindergarten) through elementary. That school, now the Platt Grange Hall, still stands at the corner of Esch and Indian Hill Road. He graduated from Honor High School in 1930 at the age of 17. In the early days on the farm, the family read Zane Grey aloud. “Ma would read a chapter after supper.” At school he read every book he could get his hands on.

According to Clive, though he lived on Aral road, there never was a town of Aral. “The town was Otter Creek.” Aral was just the name used for the post office.

Nowadays he lives on Fowler Road in a one hundred year-old house with pebble columns on the front. His youngest son Dan lives next door, his Dan Haswell Excavator truck parked outside.

We started talking about Clive’s poetry. It seems that just as long as he’s been making poetry, he’s been dreaming of the open road.

Here are a few lines from “the first poem I ever wrote down and kept,” written at age 16 called “The Lone Trail.”

For I’ve the urge to wander
Beneath the clear blue sky,…

So I’m packing what is needed,
My rifle, pistol, knife,
And I’m off, I care not whither
To a wild and simple life.”

Though he has been thinking in rhyme since he was very young, he only started writing down and gathering his poetry in 1984 at the urging of a lady friend. Since then he has written over 4,000 poems and essays. He has put together numerous small, self-published books of poetry and one three-volume memoir. And he keeps on writing.

Much of his poetry concerns the wild years he spent as a young man before he settled down and raised a family. He calls himself the Frustrated Rover because he wishes now that he could go back to those times on the open road.

From PROGRESS

The other day, upon the road,
I crossed an old railroad bed.
The tracks had just been taken up,
That old railroad was dead.

I traveled on that railroad,
Riding in an empty box –
But I realize that railroads
Are about as dated as the ox.

But I get a lonesome feeling
And my mouth feels dry as dust,
Whenever I cross a railroad
And see rails all red with rust.

Way back there in the thirties –
I close my eyes and dream.
I hear wheels click on rail joints
And whistles fed live steam.

I seem to hear those steamers
On the trains I used to ride.
I hear the bark of the exhaust
As we climb toward the divide.

Clive remembers everything about those times. It all started when he took a different name and “crossed over to the other side of the lake.” In those days if you knew someone on the car ferry out of Frankfort, you could ride over with the cars for five cents.

It was the 1930s, the decade of The Great Depression. Clive was a young man, just out of high school. He tried for, but was turned down by, the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps). He was lucky to get a little job near Frankfort and began playing poker in the evenings.

He discovered that he was “a natural” at it. Penny ante poker is one thing, Clive told me, but “when there’s money on the table, I only play for blood!” Those were slim times, and poker was about the only way he could put some money in his pocket.

He hung around playing poker up and down this side of the lake. However winning too many pots made him unpopular and his competitors stopped telling him where the games were being held.

So he crossed the lake and began playing for a living. He could have “made a good stake too,” he said, except it seemed that every time he got a little money together he “went hoboing.”

The hobo experience took him on many rails, ships and trucks all over the country and beyond. He avoided the big cities, saying “Chicago is the only place I ever got lonely.” Here he recalls some of the trains he rode.

I’ve Rode

I never rode the Cannonball
But I rode some Wabash freights.
I rode the Burlington Northern
And Michigan’s Nickel Plate.

I rode Great Northern boxcars
And the old C B and Q
I stole rides on the Soo Line
And on the Santa Fe, too.

I’ve rode the Chicago Northwestern
And I’ve rode the old South Shore,
I’ve ridden a lot of short lines
That aren’t there any more.

I never rode the cushions much,
My rides were mostly freights.
I’ve heard those old steam whistles
In almost every state.

I’ve rode Maine Central sidedoors
That were a long ways from home.
I hitched rides on the Michigan Central
Back when I used to roam.

The Pere Marquette, the G R and I,
The Rock Island, the Katy too.
I’ve ridden the Milwaukee line
But my roving days are through.

Clive gambled and hoboed for a couple of years. The hobo life was rough. Sometimes they went hungry. They were often cold. Sometimes people died.

But there was a hobo code of sorts. When they gathered in the hobo jungle in the evening, they made hobo stew with each man contributing whatever food he had managed to scrounge that day. It all went into the same pot and then was divided up among them when it was ready to eat.

Clive told the story of how he accidentally killed a man over a pot of hobo stew.

From The Sixth

That day the pickings had been scarce.
The stew was meager.
And when we took if from the fire, twas plain
That each ones’ portion would be small.

There in the jungle was a big man,
Who we all knew was not a hobo.
He’d not contributed nor spoke a word before,
And he was bigger far than any one of us.
Now he stepped close and said, “I’ll need it all,”
And reached to take the stew.

…

I swung a fist against his jaw.
He fell.
Another Bo quick grabbed the kettle
And salvaged some, though part was lost.
The bully had not moved.
Now someone checked, and gasped in fear,
“He’s dead!”
The hobos scattered like a flock of quail.
I ate, then caught a west bound freight.

I’ve no regrets
But sometimes wonder,
If I broke then
The Sixth Commandment.

But that had been an accident and the man was stealing food from hungry men. What really made Clive stop and look at where he was headed was later on when he almost shot a man over a game of poker.

As Clive told it, a group of men was playing and quite a bit of money was on the table. But Clive had a bad feeling about one of the men in the game, and Clive knew he was carrying a gun. Clive had a gun too and prepared himself to use it.

Clive said “a professional poker player generally looks at his cards and then bunches ‘em up. He either holds them close to his chest or lays them down on the table.”

The game got tense as the pot grew bigger. The other guy was losing and getting angry.

Clive began playing using only his left hand to keep his right hand free, palm down on the table, in plain view. He figured the other fellow would see Clive was keeping his gun hand ready.

As the tension mounted, he thought to himself “I would have enough time to get two shots off, and at that range, I could shoot the man’s hand, and if I missed that, I wouldn’t miss his head.”

The climax came when Clive was dealt a “spade Royal” (a royal flush in spades). Though he had drawn to complete a Royal Flush before, this was the first and only Royal Flush he has ever been dealt right off the bat. The pot was over $400.00. Clive raised. Everyone else folded except the one man; He called. Clive turned over his cards showing that he had won the pot.

The guy was so mad he jumped up and knocked over his chair. But thankfully he did not go for his gun. Clive was left with the winnings and the haunting knowledge that he had been ready to shoot a man over $400.00. The close call made him stop and take a look at his life. He resolved to give up poker playing and go home.

The fact that his sweetheart was waiting for him at home in Honor may have helped him make his decision.

He “crossed back over the lake” (Lake Michigan), took back his real name, and returned to this area.

He had been away about three years. When he walked back into the house, “Ma said, ‘Well, where have you been?’” Clive said he never told her. His Dad, who had done some wandering of his own in his younger days, only smiled knowingly.

His girl Harriet Green was still waiting for him. But even though he had come back home off the road, there still wasn’t any work. And a man didn’t get married without having a job.

He spent a year in the CCC (this time they took him) including five weeks fighting forest fires up on Isle Royal. That job lasted through the summer of 1937.

This time when he came home he encountered some amazingly good luck, and got a temporary job at Crystal Downs Golf Club near Crystal Lake. That “one month turned into 46 years.”

Clive and Harriet were married on December 27, 1937. Their first home was a 9 x 18 foot room above his sister’s in a shop on the old family place. When he got home from the wedding, Clive said, he had only $1.50 in his pocket. But they had groceries on the shelf and he had a job. It was a start.

Together they made a good life and raised three sons.

He lost his wife after 26 years in 1963 when she was only 48. The youngest of their three sons was still at home.

It was 20 years before Clive dared love again. And then he had a series of disappointments. He has concluded that he is unlucky in love. He is still single and he still likes the ladies, but I think he is resigned to being single the rest of his life. It seems to fit with his self-image as a loner and a wanderer.

In his poetry he says it would be hard to marry a wanderer, and even though his feet don’t carry him as far now or as easily as they once did, in his heart he is still a hobo.

The Yukon

I read Bob Service’, “Spell Of The Yukon,”
The call was more than I could stand.
I just had to pack up my equipment
And go look at that wonderful land.
I did not go looking for gold,
Nor to skate on the frozen Yukon,
Though I did file on a couple of claims
And even dug gold out of one.
I found a magnificent country,
Where it takes a big man to survive,
And the one who can’t face up to Nature,
Will soon head back to the outside.
I only remained for one winter
A Rover gets itchy in spring,
But as time creeps along I keep yearning
To go back to the Yukon again.
I know that it isn’t the same,
Not since the Highway is there,
But there’s surely a few hidden hollows
That a Loner could find, if he dare.
I know that I never will get there,
But the yearning will not go away,
And I wake from a dream, in the darkness,
And wonder why I didn’t stay?

These days Clive stays busy cutting wood for the stove, taking care of his horse Dusty, growing, canning and freezing food from his large vegetable garden, baking his award winning Cocoa-Zucchini Bread, going to Nancy’s Restaurant each Tuesday morning to get together with all the seniors there for music and visiting, attending church on Sunday, going to the monthly Senior Jamboree at Wellston to dance, handwriting book after book of poetry and essays, and typing them all up on the computer (which he taught himself to use).

His bad knees, and a broken arm a couple of winters ago have slowed him down. He walks out to “Drake’s Corner” and back as often as he can and occasionally gets over to walk along the beach of Lake Michigan. He doesn’t drive after dark or in the winter much anymore because he wants to keep his driving privileges as long as possible.

Recently the family held a 90th birthday party for Clive. About 20 friends and relatives attended. The party was held out back in a pleasant spot under some trees and a little picnic awning between Clive’s and Dan’s house. In the background is the horse barn where Dan’s horse Dusty lives. Clive has never ridden Dusty (he hasn’t ridden in 50 years), but there is a symbolic attachment between the old Rover and the unbroken mustang.

Through it all, he never stops writing. He doesn’t sit down to write a poem; they just come to him and seem to force themselves out. It’s his job to write them down.

His poetry is influenced by Rudyard Kipling and by Robert Service, an extremely popular American poet who wrote about The West and the Gold Rush Years.

Clive writes about many subjects including Nancy’s restaurant in Honor, the years as a hobo, his love for Michigan, the women he knew and loved, growing up, his insatiable need to learn, his urge to make poetry, growing old, farming, getting into and staying out of trouble, freight trains, trucks and playing cards.

Recently he explored new territory with a children’s book of fantasy poetry called Wonderland. It seems a cross between Alice in Wonderland and Green Eggs and Ham.

From SASCUMBLAT

The Sascumblat is yellow,
Except where he is green,
Of course there are some purple spots,
While places in between
Are colored sort of orange --

From Gimblewich

Across the hills of Wonderland
A clumsy hero blundered.
He stubbed his toe on every rock
And trembled when it thundered.

He is a prolific writer. He has 49 handwritten “books” of his writings on the shelf at home. From these he has self-published about a dozen volumes of his poetry plus a number of what he calls “Nancy Books,” collections for and about the seniors who gather weekly at Nancy’s restaurant. Clive types, prints and assembles the books himself. He has a couple books of collected essays and in one book includes poems and essay by other family members he has gathered, He has a three-volume memoir with another volume in the works. Plus he has the Wonderland book of children’s poetry.

Clive Haswell has lived a long and full life. It is wonderful that he is willing and able to share so much of it with us through his poetry. Read one or two poems about the lonesome road, and suddenly you are hooked. His poems about coming to terms with old age and death pull at your heart-strings. You will wonder at all the things this man has seen, and done and thought. And then you will want to read more. Let’s hope he keeps on writing them.

Autographed copies of Clive’s books are available at the Cottage Book Shop in Glen Arbor. Some are also available from the Benzie Area Historical Society in Benzonia and from Beulaland, a gift shop next to the Cherry Bowl in Honor. Or call Clive at 231 325-6464 to arrange to stop by for a copy. He’d be happy to greet you and would undoubtedly quote you a poem.

Posted by editor at 10:10 PM | Comments (0)

Observatory sees heavenly bodies

By Norm Wheeler
Sun staff writer

“What’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen with this telescope?” asks a visitor to the Leelanau School’s Lanphier Observatory. My stock answer is another question: “You mean in the sky, or on the beach?”

Since the bicentennial year of 1976, visitors to the Glen Lake area and the Leelanau School have oohed and aahed at the wonders of the universe they can see through a 14” Celestron Schmidt-Cassegranian telescope. The observatory was a gift from Charles H. Lanphier, an electrical engineer from Springfield, IL, who summered on Glen Lake for most of his life. An avid astronomer as well as an inventor (he helped develop the electrical meter that’s now on everybody’s house), “Chick” Lanphier’s dream was to have a state-of-the-art observatory on Prospect Hill overlooking Glen Lake so he could share his star-gazing passion with everyone. With meticulous care Lanphier designed the facility, machined many of the parts himself, and even helped the Ash Dome Company develop the special “Lanphier” shutter that allows winter viewing through a special window so that the stargazers or astrophotographers in the dome don’t freeze. In 1976 the observatory opened when director Dave Waltrip showed students from Glen Lake and Suttons Bay high schools the “first light” through the big reflector. The following summer up to 90 people per clear night lined the lane from the Homestead Reception Center up to the Observatory, which offered stunning views over Big Glen Lake and Sleeping Bear Bay to guests on the deck waiting their turn to climb the ladder to the big scope. A Leelanau Amateur Astronomy Study Group soon formed under the leadership of Bob Moler, (northwestern Michigan’s astronomy guru, whose daily Ephemeris program can be heard on Interlochen Public Radio, 91.5 FM). Mr. Lanphier continued to pay frequent visits to Bill Maclachlan down at Old School Hardware as he tinkered with the darkroom, the shutter, or the dome, perfecting every detail of what his family down on the lake simply called “The O.” Sadly, Charles Lanphier passed on in 1978 just two years after the Observatory opened, but his legacy includes this amazing gift to the community that has made it possible for thousands of people to see astonishing views of planets, comets, nebulae, star clusters, and galaxies.

At the age of 15 years the Observatory had to move. The Leelanau School swapped the wooded hill where the Observatory stood with the Homestead Resort for the Cora Beals house down on the beach. The hill is now the site of the Homestead’s Stonybrook Lodge, and the Cora Beals house has moved onto the Leelanau School campus to become its visual arts center. (Cora and “Skipper” Beals founded the Leelanau School for Boys and Pinebrook School for Girls with Helen and Arthur Huey in 1929.) The demolition of the original observatory was pictured on the front page of the Traverse City Record-Eagle on February 15, 1990. The telescopes, the doors, windows, and lights, the darkroom equipment, even the blackboard and chalk were stored, and the dome squatted on the ground next to the Crystal River on the path to the Leelanau School waterfront for one summer while a new, smaller observatory was built down on the beach. We ran an electrical cord down to the beach and set up a platform for portable telescopes so that our twice-a-week public viewing nights could continue uninterrupted, and in 1991 the telescope was mounted on the new pier in the center of the building and the dome was placed on the new Lanphier Observatory on the shore of Sleeping Bear Bay. Gone was the view of Big Glen and the perfect southern horizon for seeing summer splendors in the constellations of Scorpius and Sagittarius. But the new location, with its perfect horizon from the Sleeping Bear sand dunes in the southwest all the way round to Pyramid Point to the north allowed for daily use as a classroom for all science and English students, and it has become a site for studying seasonal bird migrations, bald eagles hunting ducks along the edge of the ice all winter, the ships and fishing boats that ply the waters of the Manitou Passage, and of course the moon, planets, comets, stars and deep sky objects of the night sky.

When he presented the Observatory to the Leelanau School, Mr. Lanphier only required that the school continue to provide public viewing nights and instruction in astronomy for all. Thanks to Mr. Lanphier, hundreds of visitors continue to shuffle down to the “dome on the beach” between 10:30 and midnight on Wednesday and Thursday nights from the Summer Solstice to Labor Day, provided the clouds stay away (admission is $3 for adults and $2 for students). Along with the changing phases of the moon, numerous man-made satellites, frequent meteors, and rare northern lights, visitors on summer nights can expect to see the binary star Albireo, the Ring and Dumbbell nebulae, the great globular star cluster in Hercules, and the Whirlpool Galaxy. And this month, rising above the pines to the southeast, the planet Mars is closer to Earth and brighter to see than it has been for thousands of years. From September to May the Astronomy class at the private boarding school rules the roost, but visitors to the area may arrange to come to the Observatory on a clear night (for a fee) by calling the Leelanau School at (231) 334-5890.

Where Norm Wheeler teaches Astronomy and English has been called “the most beautiful classroom on earth”. He begins his 20th year at The Leelanau School this fall.

Posted by editor at 09:16 PM | Comments (0)

Portrait of An Artist: Greg Sobran

By M. Leth-Soerensen
Sun staff writer

Entering the Sobran gallery on the west side of Glen Arbor one is offered a feast for the eye. There one comes face to face with impressionistic paintings of local scenery marked by their brilliant colors. Tropical Key West and images from France and Italy also adorn the walls or are found stacked on a table. Greg has done mostly watercolors over the years but has ventured more into oil painting lately. His new gallery opened in Glen Arbor this past spring as Greg and his wife Wanda decided to lease their own space from Ruth Conklin, who operates the gallery next door.

Twelve years ago local painter Suzanne Wilson peeked in the windows of an old rusty station wagon parked outside Art’s Tavern. She had seen the traces of a serious painter: the color block, multiple brushes and the palette. Suzanne spotted the Sobrans and their meeting led to an invitation from the Lake Street Studios for Greg to exhibit his artwork at the popular venue across the street from what’s now Cherry Republic the following summer. This first show produced many sales and he has painted in the Glen Lake area ever since. Greg’s interpretations of landscapes and buildings now grace many homes and businesses in the area as well as all over the world.

Greg Sobran is a ruggedly handsome man in his forties who spent his childhood summers on Torch Lake in a family cottage overlooking Northport. His first memories of this area are as a 10-year-old visiting the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore with his aunt who took him along in a rented red and white Oldsmobile convertible. Ever since he was a boy he has longed for the outdoors, for adventure and travel, especially since the classroom always bored him. Labor Day was a painful day in the calendar because it meant giving up his freedom of exploration. At a young age Greg was fascinated by buildings and landscapes and had the artist’s eye for details. After growing up in Ann Arbor he attended Eastern Michigan University where he studied Fine Arts. Only recently did he realize that he was, in fact, awarded a Bachelor of Arts from the EMU. After college Greg pursued a career as a graphic artist. Years later he and Wanda felt the constraints of the job and craved independence. So, after a short stint as a carpenter, he pursued the freelance life of an artist. Greg and Wanda bought and restored an old school house in Ann Arbor for their home base. But their urge to travel with his canvasses and Wanda’s engaging personality paved the way for a gypsy life style that could fill the pages of a colorful book. They fell in love with Horton Bay in Charlvoix County and spent their last $75 there. So Wanda found work at a general store that resembles Omena’s Tamarack Gallery, and they traded his paintings for gas and lodging. While reminiscing further about their adventures, Wanda flips through pages of an international magazine and gazes at photos of the chateaux where they stayed in southern France.

Greg pours us a glass of Bordeaux wine while we visit in the welcome gallery. Away from the display I spot a portrait of a local teenager – a lovely young woman who Greg captured well. He also does consignment pieces like this and has painted portraits in the style of John Singer Sargent during his travels. Painters that have inspired him along the way include Winslow Homer, Edward Hopper and the French impressionists. Unlike many artists, Greg does not travel to art fairs, he does not teach painting classes and he does not sell prints of original works. To support the local scene, Greg supplied the artwork for the 1999 Glen Arbor Art Association Manitou Music Festival poster. This was one of the most popular posters the annual series ever produced, and it is no longer available in this area. Besides the Sobran gallery Greg’s original art displays can be found in galleries such as The Ward Gallery in Harbor Springs and in Raleigh, North Carolina.

Posted by editor at 08:18 PM | Comments (0)

Coyotes roam Alligator Hill; Incidents With Dogs Reported

By Jane Greiner
Sun staff writer

Mary Sutherland frequently walks her dog along the foot of Alligator Hill just off Forest Haven Road where she lives.

On a recent walk in the woods beside Forest Haven where the pavement ends, her son Bob’s dog, Mabel, bounded up the hill on its own even as her golden retriever, Molly, seemed reluctant to leave Mary’s side. Suddenly she saw Mabel from about 200 yards away, running down the hill toward her. Flanking Mabel were two “yellow dogs.”

Mary thought, “Look at the puppies” and figured they were all having fun until she realized that the yellow dogs were chasing Mabel, who was running flat-out.

Mary looked away to check on Molly and when she turned back the coyotes had disappeared. Mabel arrived at her side clearly terrified. Mary said “She drank water for an hour after that”.

Mary reports that her neighbor Patty Dingman’s dog Gracie will no longer go into the woods along Alligator Hill. They think she is afraid of the coyotes too.

Glen Arbor resident Paul May has seen what he believes are two coyote dens or one den with two openings on Alligator Hill. The holes are too big for fox dens. He didn’t actually see a coyote in the dens, but said, “I’ve seen plenty of coyotes while running on Alligator Hill”.

Glen Arbor veterinarian Roger Vander Werff of the Sleeping Bear Animal Clinic has not received any dogs with coyote bites this year but remembers four incidents in 2002. Two of them were quite large dogs, weighing 75 to 80 pounds, he said. “The owners saw it happen,” in two cases. Two of the dogs had been bitten on the rear and one on the back.

Vicki Baxter of Northwood Drive and Meagan Anderson of M-22 in Glen Arbor have seen coyotes on Alligator Hill several times this year while walking their dogs. Vicki recalls a coyote coming down the path along where they had just passed. They picked up their dogs and held them in their arms to protect them.

Another time “the coyotes came and nipped at the dog’s heal and I grabbed the dog,” to keep it away from the coyotes, she says. Vicki and Meagan claim they once saw and heard three coyotes. Vicki says that one is gray and two are brown and white. But they talked to another woman on the trail who had seen four. These coyotes allegedly came to within 15 feet of the women. They seemed more interested in the dogs and did not appear to be afraid of people.

The veterinarian assistant in Lake Leelanau said he had not heard of any coyote attacks on dogs but admitted, “of course, they always get some cats”.

The moral of the story is that we all need to remember that the wild things around us are truly wild. Their survival instincts are strong and they will take food where they find it, whether it’s from nature preserves, out of our gardens, or off our paths. It is up to us to keep an eye on our pets and remember that to a hungry coyote, a pet looks a lot like dinner.

Posted by editor at 07:38 PM | Comments (0)

“In the Voice of the Olsen House”

By Anne-Marie Oomen
Sun staff writer

The following story, told from the perspective of the house, was read at a public reception held by Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear on Thursday, August 7 at the Olsen farm, located north of The Homestead on M-22 in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.

*Based in part on the transcripts of the taped interviews with Alfred and Lorraine Mason by Tom Van Zoeren. The rest is imagination.

“A house being built is lonely, like being half born. I tell you. I haven’t spoken to no one of this, but when they poured the concrete, they set it in well-drained sand so it wouldn’t crack so easy with the winters I got to deal with here. But it took a long time to complete a house like me back then. A long time in the making. Two years or so before the farm was complete, and they raced the winter to get it done, this thing I am. That was lonely thinking, and it filled me with longing. But for what? A house doesn’t know what it wants for long time, maybe almost to the end, when the doors come and the windows get set. I’ll tell you how it felt.

It was good, this place they found, this site for a house. You know, people don’t think right about where they put their houses sometimes, but this one, they did right by me, they put me near the road. The big curve wasn’t always so big, but anybody come this way, they see me, all clean and gleaming in my fresh clapboard. Think about it. If you were a house dreaming to be a home, what would you want. Sunlight, fields, a view of the world around you, a tree barrier for the wind. Think of it, a house in the making has half-built dreams, just like a child. I felt it in my two by fours, which really were two by fours back then, none of this half inch shy like they do these days—you carpenters know what I’m talking about—I felt it in the studs and headers, the rafters and the posts, something just out of visibility, something in the making of— what is it? Oh, in the walls, here and here and here and here, 28 by 28. Dimensions. I have dimensions, and then it starts to happen, this way we take on shape, keep out and let in the weather. If it’s good, we let in enough light to let a cat sleep in a pool of sun or a child try to take the light from the beam streaming through the doors. A house sees what happens inside, but all at once, in every room, so history is not easy for a house. It’s thick with knowing and stories that tumble into each other, from room to room. And all the voices. But I’m ahead of myself.

You want that view, that good open land where the cows low and the potato fields green up in the heat. You want that first because you got to stay in one place for a long time. There were no Robert Foulkes to move building around back then. Then, when the carpenters put the windows in, you see for the first time, how green and pure and fresh things are. You feel yourself start to bend, to breathe with the weather you are still open to. That first summer, 1919, there was only the work of me, and I didn’t know who was who or what I was, but one day, there was this woman. She came and walked through before things were done yet, and she put her hands on the unpainted walls and touched the not yet varnished oak woodwork, and she walked from room to room. She had been there all along, but she came alone this time, and walked and walked, and sometimes she murmured to herself, and she touched a doorjamb here and a sill there. She ran her fingers on the glass that already needed cleaning and she tasted the dust from the saws. She shook her head and tisked a bit, but she walked like she was dreaming, and I could see that she would be the one, the first one, to come to me. Her name was Hattie, though I didn’t know that yet, I didn’t know the language of human dreams, only that she had touched the wood of my interior differently than the others.

Sometime later, he came, the man. He was determined. I could feel it when he came, the way he stepped hard on his heals, and when he touched it was to make things right. His dream was bigger than the house, it made the barn and the outbuildings right down to something called a two-holer. He was clear in his thoughts. When he touched it was to see how smooth, how straight. He carried a level and checked for plumb and square everywhere it would lay. I knew then, whatever being I was, would have the strength to live as long as they did, maybe as long as their children did.

And then, there was weather. You know the storms we have here. How they come across the big water that I cannot see, but know is there because its moisture touches my every seam and pours down the roof. And it was fall, and the leaves dropped and things were still being done, but still they did not come, they did not come, this Hattie and this man. And then, just after first snow, in the Month I know now they call November, they came. At the time I now know is called Thanksgiving. I didn’t know what Thanksgiving meant, only that it was the day they finally came, and then I felt how it was with the two of them. And his name was Charles. For they were a new family and there were things that happened in certain rooms that I never did learn the words for but it made everyone happy, you know. So that was the early time, and the loneliness died in me and I was filled up with what they did, the canning and the cows, the vegetable stand that went up by the gas tank right on the road, and that’s the way to kill the loneliness a house has until its full, make a meal, many meals, make soup with the hog that rutted in the shed out back, fill me up with smells of living so the walls, like skin, take on the odors of the family, the scent of the way they eat, the way they live enters the timbers, the plaster, the vents and glass and makes the world, or a house, a whole.

There were others, the mother who lived in the little house out back, who brought the sewing at night, and Hattie never complained though she was tired with the day the canning jar exploded. There was that Guernsey cow kept getting out, there were the apples to be picked and stored and shipped to some place far away. They brought work into the house like offerings, the berries of summer, big as a thimble, grown in a valley out back. They brought scraps of dresses and quilted in the parlor. Hattie stayed up late, working the quilts, one for each of the girls that run through these rooms. A piece for each moment and blanket for each heart beating in my walls. A house starts to take seriously its work, it starts to know that it is the only thing between the cold and the hard things of the world. It can open and close and be a place of sweet warmth. If your people are sturdy, you stay sturdy. Charles hauled logs for the mills, and Hattie had to do the cows and everything else, and they worked, always, always there was work inside, outside my rooms. So I held up. I held up.

A house doesn’t know how the years pass. Doesn’t know what time is like for human dreamers. At night, a house like me stays quiet for the folks, unless the winter gets too cold, and then you got to shift a bit. There were cold nights, and then spring would come but I wasn’t a house to count the seasons. I had work to do with that family and all the children. I had to keep them safe and warm, Hattie and Charles, and hold and hold for the time.

But even with all I learned, I didn’t know about the way humans die. He was older and he plowed the gardens with horses. I saw once, he fell, and the horses just stopped and waited, and he got up and kept going but I knew then, something would change. He left the house in 1949. They took him out a different way, and he didn’t come back. I thought then that Hattie might leave too, the winter was so long, my roof got weak, and she was, what’s the word, sad. But in the spring, she went to her bee hives, murmuring like she did, and she made her first loaf of bread, put a little spring flour in to make it lighter. I could see then she’d stay a while and I braced up.

The daughter came, the one called Lorraine, she worked like her mama, and when it came time, I could feel a change, and she became the one to stay. She was stronger than the others, and she was the one with her Alfred for sure, for a long time, and it was still good, though there was wear in my corners and tear in my soffits. But then Hattie did leave for sure, and then years passed and there was more change and hard talk.

This time everyone left.

Now like I said, a house don’t know time, but it was time then that filled my frame, time crawling into every nook and cranny and time that dirtied the windows, along with a couple bad winters, and time that made me lose my luster. There was no one there to touch the walls and make the glass shine. I was alone and not made to be a house alone at all. But the stuff in me would not cave in, would not let up for I still saw the open land, and though the buildings all around had gone in decay, my friend the old barn stayed, empty too, both of us with that question in our walls about how long we could hold on. It’s memory, those wild stories I told you about, the tumbling ones that kept me company for all those years, and kept me as strong and calm as I could be—given what time can do to anything. I didn’t give in, and so it was no surprise, because I’d worked so hard at being a good house, that someone noticed and one day opened the doors, and one day swept the floors and then the changes came again and the roof was new and the yard trimmed and the woodwork washed and the kitchen scrubbed and people now come and go. I understand it’s to be a different kind of family now. That though no one sleeps here, there will be people always entering, strangers who need to see how it was when I was new, and how it was with the good folks who made me. There will be a hundred, I hear, or more, every time my doors open, and I will be a house again, full of newer stories, including I am told, my own.

If you look out at the fields and the roads, you know, something makes the world a better place. If you care for me, I’ll care for you, and give you what I can, in my limited way, of what I know of being a house, a shelter from the cold. So come. Enter into this story, a slow and clapboard one, a story made of rooms and old floors and the long light of late summer.”

Posted by editor at 06:40 PM | Comments (0)

“Roughin’ It” in the Sleeping Bear Dunes

By Torin Yeager
Sun staff writer

There are times in one’s life when a sudden thirst for adventure arises from deep down in one’s soul. This is generally known as a mid-life crisis, but at age 15, I certainly do not feel middle-aged. I haven’t been lacking for adventure lately, but a little more excitement wouldn’t hurt, so I decide to go on a trek through the shifting sands of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. I stow my camera in my pack, as adventures must always be recorded, and set off on an epic journey, sure to be retold for at least a day or two.

My travels begin at the foot of the Sleeping Bear Dune Climb just a few miles west of Glen Arbor. License plates from New York to Oregon fill the sprawling parking lot while voices speaking languages other than English (German, for sure, and another so exotic that I don’t recognize it) are audible, evidence of the lure of this massive pile of sand. If I had a map I would plot my course from the steaming parking filled with lounging picnickers to the shores of Lake Michigan, but who needs maps when there’s a whole wave of people making their way up the first dune? Many climbers jettison their footwear at the base, but I opt to retain my sturdy sandals, which won’t collect heavy sand like ordinary shoes. I join a crowd that follows another group up the main dune climb, much like a flock of sheep. The sight of throngs of kids running down the slope while their parents attempt to keep up proves very amusing. The hill is quite steep, and the climb’s summit leaves a few people panting, but most continue on. After trudging past the first blue-tipped wooden marker buried in the sand just a hundred yards from the parking lot, my spirits are up, but the scent of over-applied sunscreen reminds me that I neglected to bring any Ultraviolet protection of my own. No problem though, as the lake is just over the next hill.

But as I crest this mound of granulated minerals and prickly dune grass I see… more hills, and more. A collective groan comes from my fellow hikers as the realization hits them like a tidal wave from the lake that our oasis is much further ahead. A few of the weak-at-heart turn back, but the story for me is not over yet.

After two more hills and countless blue-tipped posts, I begin to wonder why I hadn’t just turned around earlier, like most of the other travelers. My view from one of the hills offers no sign of any lake, or anything nourishing for that matter. Instead I see more hills covered with endless grass and scraggly trees. My desperate mind begins to drift as if I were in a desert even though the trees and other plants are the typical flora of Leelanau County. Sand is no stranger to the soil in these parts, but this lonely place in the middle of the dunes certainly contains more than I’ve bargained for. Soil drainage is so efficient here that all the plants I see are stunted from lack of water. Their trauma inspires me to reach into my pack for water, only to find that I forgot to pack any kind of food or refreshment for my trip. I am startled out of my reverie by a man hiking in the opposite direction who tells me, “There are only six more hills to go!” Despair often hits people in the middle of nowhere, but I am determined to reach the lake at all costs, so I run to catch up with the remaining people in the crowd, although our ranks are so thin that we hardly qualify as a crowd anymore.

As we tread slowly across the desert wastelands, I spot yet another blue-tipped post, although this one is lying at an angle, like a forlorn cross. One hill later, I see a post that is almost completely buried in the sand. Apparently all signs of civilization are growing more and more faint the further into this shifting landscape I go. But I move on, in hopes of someday reaching the lake. At this point only a few members of the original group are still standing, some in front, some behind me, while fewer still are returning from the beach. All of those returning travelers speak of the cool waters just over the next few hills, and I sincerely hope they tell the truth.

After treading carefully along the path as it winds through a particularly lush patch of poison ivy, which I have learned to avoid from a previous article in the Glen Arbor Sun, I make my way up another rise. The cool breeze at the top brings a different smell to my nose. It is salty like the sea, but I remember that the Great Lakes are filled with fresh water, and the salt is from my sweat. But what of the cool breeze? … A lake!

It’s true. The vast blue expanse of Lake Michigan stretches out in front of me as I run down the last slope to the beach. The man miscounted the number of hills between myself and victory; there were only three! I dash a few yards into the refreshing surf before remembering that cameras like mine do not fare well when submerged. Then, while standing knee-deep in the cold water, I notice the staggering difference in numbers between the masses of tourists climbing the first dune by the parking lot and the dwindling adventurers resting on the beach. Our elite group made it through everything the Sleeping Bear could throw at us. We’re the few, the proud… and the ones with the longest hike back … You just can’t win out here.

When all attempts to see through the haze for a glimpse of the Manitou Islands prove futile, I succumb in defeat, and realize the only adventure left is the long march back to the trailhead, where civilization and air conditioning await my return. I am regretting not bringing any water with me, and most of my fellow hikers have already used up their small supplies of bottled H2O. As I slog back in the humid air, my heat-addled brain ponders in confusion why all of the memorable landmarks that I had followed, such as the half-buried and forgotten trail marker posts, are now found on the opposite side of the path. What was once on the right going one way is now on the left going the other direction. Strange.

Each step I take and every hill I climb brings more people attempting to make the very same journey that I just survived. I make out the phrase, “Just one more hill,” uttered by more than a few weary travelers. I can only speculate as to how many of these poor souls will actually reach their destination before turning back.

Barely noticing the passing scenery, I finally make my way back to the flat, sandy plateau overlooking the main steep slope of the dune climb. Now all that is left for me to do is get down this last hill and out to the parking lot teeming with visitors. However, there are many different ways for me to do this. I could take the traditional long-strides down in a slow, stately fashion, or I could dash headlong into the weeds at the bottom of the hill. Better yet, I could roll all the way down like most of the six-year-olds visiting the park. Or, how about cartwheels? The method I choose, of course, is a crazy half-running, half-falling tumble to the end of my trek.

I savor a cool drink at the fountain before looking back at the majestic giants of sand behind me. I have conquered them today. Gloating over my latest accomplishment, I check a map in the National Park Service building at the base of the Dune Climb to view my path from beginning to end. As it turns out, the trail does not cover the shortest distance to the lake, as a crow would fly, but angles northward. Is this an attempt at humor by some Park Ranger? The truth is that a steep bluff stands at the shore directly west of the main Dune Climb. To enable hikers to reach the water’s edge, the longer northern route must be traveled. Still, my journey has taken me over seven hills for a round-trip distance of a mere 2.5 miles, over a time period of an hour and a half. There’s nothing like the harsh facts to spoil a truly fantastic story. Until next time, Sleeping Bear.

Posted by editor at 05:42 PM | Comments (0)