tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71806189359532913242024-03-05T06:34:45.558-08:00Writing the St. Marysmoderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-60236933495363373572012-07-15T11:41:00.001-07:002012-07-15T11:41:17.462-07:00Three Fish Stories, by Mark Murray<b>One</b><br />
When I was a young boy around ten years old, my grandfather would come home with lots of fish. He would tell us children his stories of where and how he had caught those fish. I was always fascinated with his stories. I couldn’t wait until I could go fishing with grandpa and learn his technique.<br />
<br />
I worked for my father around the house and in town doing odd jobs during the summer, I saved money to buy myself fishing tackle. I bought fishing poles, a tackle box, line, sinkers, bobbers, and a used net from a friend. I was already to go fishing when spring came. I showed off my gear to whoever would listen, but, the main person I wanted to impress was my grandfather. To me, my grandfather was the best fisherman on the St. Mary’s river. I can’t remember a time that he went fishing and didn’t come home with fish. He would catch so many fish that sometimes, he would smoke them, then take them to town and sell them. Grandma didn’t like it too much, because, I believe he sold them at the local taverns. Local people came to his house to buy fresh fish whether smoked or not. Grandpa had a nice boat for that day in time; he would pay me sometimes to clean it, a hard and stinky job. I didn’t mind because he would explain to me the responsibility of keeping your gear in good clean working condition, which, was a very good lesson. I in turn have taught my sons that same old lesson.<br />
<br />
During those first five years of fishing I went with grandpa as often as school would permit. I learned the secrets of my grandfather’s ways. Pretty soon I was catching fish all the time. Grandma said, “I needed to learn how to smoke the fish like grandpa,” she liked smoked fish because she didn’t have to cook them. As I got older, I was allowed to go fishing with my friends and their dads. I always took my gear with me, as sometimes their fathers would say, “ he has everything needed to fish”. I knew grandpa’s way and that is the way I fish. I was asked many times after that to go fishing with them, sometimes it was just with the father, maybe his buddy and myself. I was starting to get the reputation on the river as a good fisherman. I sold some of the fish down at the Sugar Island ferry boat. As Grandma would say, “we have enough fish.” I would give them away to some of the old timers sitting on the dock trying to catch fish or just there relaxing; it made me feel good to give away some of my catch. The old timers would laugh and say “I’ve got a good story to go with this one.” It made me think of my grandfather’s stories.<br />
<br />
<b>Two</b><br />
<br />
One time I went fishing on the North Shore of Sugar Island, just looking around mostly. However, I looked down into the water and saw the biggest fish in my life; it was a six foot Sturgeon! I stopped the boat and hooked up a line that would maybe be strong enough to catch it. I baited a big hook dropped it right down in front of this beast; it was only about ten foot deep. I could see everything going on, to my surprise this beast took the hook. I jerked hard to set the it and the fight was on. I was alone with this beast. I didn’t have the boat anchored, so the beast dragged the boat all around the river. I got tired several times as this fight lasted over four hours. I finally prevailed and the beast gave up the fight. I couldn’t keep the beast as to me, “a Native” he was a “Grandfather Spirit”. I took the hook out easily and watched him go back into the deep. I went home and told my wife and Grandpa of the fight. I could not prove it, but they knew because of my excitement. I love to tell my boy about that day, just like my grandfather’s stories, he was fascinated. <br />
<br />
<b>Three</b><br />
<br />
In 1995 the FLW came to the St.Mary’s river to put on a Walleye Tournament. This was a big tournament with professional fishermen. They had advertisements on their boats, with big motors, and every kind of the newest fishing equipment known; the “crème de la crème” of fishing. However, weeks before the tournament, these teams came up the river trying to find the best walleye holes. They asked around town for the best fishermen on the river, looking for guides. I was approached by a team, new to the tournament; they were on a tight budget with less sponsoring than other teams. Mike Ryder and Bill Pagan were their names; they said they could pay three hundred a day to guide them. I didn’t want to do it; but my wife said “we could use the money.” I went along for three days straight leaving at six a.m.. The rules were you could fish from sunup to sundown. We caught lots of fish during the early morning hours and in the late evening. One night I took them out on my twenty-one foot pontoon boat set up for fishing. I showed them how to catch walleye at night. I shared holes around Sugar Island, Les Cheneaux Islands, and Drummond Island. They didn’t win the tournament, but they made it to third place, which paid a large amount of money. I never revealed to them my upper river holes. HAHA!<br />
I’ve fished the St. Mary’s for forty five years. Now is the time to pass my grandfather’s techniques down to my son Marc. He will be among a handful of men who know this special technique of fishing the river. Grandpa is long gone, but his techniques will live on through my son Marc as he loves fishing. Marc and I love to go out in the boat, however, today’s economy is cutting our times short and few. But, on the banks of the mighty St. Marys you can find us fishing like the old timers. He has caught several big walleye and many whitefish, his preference is catching the Atlantic Salmon that run in the Fall. I’m proud that Marc enjoys fishing the St. Mary’s river and hope he continues to enjoy great many catches throughout his life and passes the special technique on to many generations to come. The Stt. Mary’s river is the best fishing in the world, especially since it’s in our own back yard.<br />moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-1249068187064605452012-07-15T10:46:00.001-07:002012-07-15T10:51:28.339-07:00The Poetry of Ellen Van Laar, The Algoma Rhymer<b>The Great Lakes Waterway</b><br />
<br />
The Great Lakes are fed by a watershed basin.<br />
Rivers collect run-off from two nations.<br />
The U.S. and Canada share regulatory tools.<br />
Together, they watch diversions and environmental rules.<br />
<br />
From Lakes: Michigan, Superior, and Huron,<br />
Saint Claire, Erie, Ontario, and Laurentien.<br />
This continent was settled using water motion.<br />
Boaters explored rivers on out to the Ocean. <br />
<br />
Canoeing Natives, then the Voyageurs,<br />
They traded furs for European beads and gear. <br />
Roads and trains were not yet progressed.<br />
So, water transport was key to economic success. <br />
<br />
The Lakes became the international border.<br />
The line is a shared resource, not wire or mortar.<br />
The value of this is more than we can think.<br />
Two countries are nourished by a common drink. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Water Cycles</b><br />
<br />
The spring melt is filling low lying niches.<br />
The thaw is seeping to puddles and ditches.<br />
Rivers and lakes flow from the interior.<br />
In watery veins, there's a heavenly mirror.<br />
When the liquid is deep, our vision is deflected.<br />
For light is held on a threshold, reflected.<br />
Air and water often kiss and mingle,<br />
Unified where they cannot remain single.<br />
Evaporation rises, like birds gently winging.<br />
Clouds absorb moisture, and later start wringing.<br />
Rain then drips to the watershed, flowing.<br />
Fluid gathers, whether coming or going.<br />
How dependant we are on this water, sharing.<br />
Within of our bodies, H2O we are carrying.<br />
We drink and pee like the land and the sky.<br />
Water keeps cycling, from the wet to the dry.<br />
<b><br />
Canada from St. Mary's Bridge </b><br />
As we wait on the bridge to be searched and grilled,<br />
We smell the stench of St. Mary's Mill.<br />
The plume of Essar Steel adds flavor,<br />
As we gaze down on the log yard's neighbor.<br />
Slag piles and dirt, with the Casino ahead,<br />
The strip joint exploitation, bar and bed.<br />
Uncut lawns, junk, and oily essence,<br />
Drab, 100 year old, industrial presence.<br />
<br />
We see this questionable side of the Sault,<br />
As we wait in the line-up for customs due.<br />
If this city is green and morally well,<br />
Then appearance must be part of the sell.<br />
I commend Essar's leadership in healing,<br />
For city image effects business dealing.<br />
The process of making our city inviting,<br />
Will reap payment and pride, very reviving!<br />
<b><br />
US Border Restrictions </b><br />
The U.S. border has most folks confused.<br />
They may steal your lunch! You may feel abused!<br />
Plants need certificates, and soil is prohibited.<br />
Root crops and fruits are often restricted.<br />
If there is doubt about where a seed was grown--<br />
They'll dispose them to the "can of the unknown".<br />
Pet food from Canada is a definite "no".<br />
Uncooked rice and unmarked citrus cannot go.<br />
Food must be marked, or you're courting a snatch.<br />
A crop out of season looks bad in your hatch. <br />
Animal by-products from cows, sheep and goats-<br />
are not allowed in your car, truck or boat. <br />
Don't bring flowers, firewood, or garlic.<br />
Keep all these rules in your glove compartment. <br />
Or else, you could get a three hundred dollar fine--<br />
If you are found ignorant on the border line. <br />
<br />
<b>The Wonders of Algoma </b><br />
Waterfalls, Montreal River Dams, the Locks,<br />
My favorite thing may be the varieties of rock.<br />
There are islands and caves near my piece of shore.<br />
Lake Superior dances 30 feet from my door. <br />
Wolves, bear, cougar and moose,<br />
I love the birds, sometimes a rare goose. <br />
Highway 17 is an inspiration.<br />
It has awesome sights and construction.<br />
Canoeing and hiking, the edge of our coast:<br />
Parks deserve credit, opportunity to boast. <br />
Our history of logging, fishing, and mines,<br />
People arrived on boats and train lines.<br />
Native stories provide a mythological base.<br />
A dragon mystery resides on Superior’s face. <br />
The Group of Seven has loudly declared,<br />
Algoma is rich with beauty, that’s rare. <br />
<br />moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-76886966862413053202012-07-15T10:44:00.001-07:002012-07-15T10:55:07.155-07:00Swerve--By Phil Dansdill<br />
<br />
Lucretius writes that the soul bears the finest and smoothest atoms, <br />
but what of that boy who drowned at Four Mile Beach<br />
four years gone now? He couldn’t swim, but would that have <br />
mattered in the current’s swerve that took him down? <br />
Was it the dreaded underwater panther, Mishibizhiw, <br />
dragging him into the path of souls, dispersing him later<br />
among the deep currents, Kitchi-Manitou nudging him <br />
to the surface, eddied and spiraled into a soft night sky?<br />
<br />
Epicurus writes that death is nothing to us, since when we are, <br />
death has not come, and when death has come, we are not,<br />
so I push off from Rotary Park, glad for drift, away from <br />
the absolutes of ground, of heat, of words that echo like whispers in a void.<br />
My river kayak slices southeast, coming fast on Island No.1 <br />
as I lean into first strokes, seeking a proper riverborne <br />
rhythm, mindless, artless, necessary as breath.<br />
A slight chop, sun allied to bow, paddles dip and drip in blue-green song. <br />
Riverside’s houses slip by on the south, Island No. 2 glides close on the north.<br />
<br />
Eliot writes, I do not know much about gods, but I think that the river is a strong <br />
brown god—sullen, untamed, intractable, but this river takes a teal green turn <br />
to the wider channel, Sugar Island maples and birches front lit in heat. <br />
The ribbon of river widens to a tapestry of silver northwest wind and water.<br />
Here is another river—wilder, colder, deeper, channeling three-story freighters,<br />
silent as stones, displacing all gods, seeking release in Huron’s wide-boned coast.<br />
<br />
But Gandhi said that God has no religion, and did you know there’s another <br />
St. Marys River, another border water, rising in Georgia swamp, flowing east <br />
across Florida, sweeping its gods to the sea.<br />
Someday I’ll kayak that sister river with her heated kindred gods,<br />
listen to her drift, her chop, her talk of the dead. <br />
<br />
The wind lifts, warm at my back. I slide by the beacon with that mother<br />
osprey evil-eyeing me coming and going as I turn back into the chop. <br />
Now I dig into the strokes, thinking too much, working too hard,<br />
like a voyageur portaging the weight of his gift.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Nietzsche asks, Is man only a blunder of God, or God only a blunder of man?<br />
I cut quickly across the channel to hug the Sugar Island shore, <br />
sun on my back, wind in my face, still digging into the chop,<br />
bouncing west, easier to track a line into the wind. Shadows edge the shore. <br />
I cup my hand in the river and it’s still cold, even in late summer.<br />
<br />
Scraping through shallows, I turn into the inlet between Island No. 1 and 2, <br />
seeking an easier path. It’s a different river, close isolate shores,<br />
pines shading sweep, driftwood entwining banks in rioting brocade. <br />
It’s a sadder river too, a century and more of chromium carbide weighting<br />
the bed, tannery leavings, wasted overflow roiling the waters, <br />
stunning the pike, walleye, and bass.<br />
<br />
Melville writes, Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever.<br />
Two hours on the river is not enough to shed scales from my eyes, from my heart.<br />
My fine and smooth atoms hum their song, silenced by the Sugar Island ferry’s<br />
crossing blare. American Integrity heads downbound.<br />
<br />
At dusk the river quiets, the wind drops into currents, Manitous nestle deeper in muck. Perhaps they’ll rise in dark, rustling the waters as they sweep across the channel, <br />
or perhaps they’ll dig deeper, sleep longer in this colder year, remapping <br />
the path of souls, waiting in silence to be reborn on the river. <br />moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-58168531677651984662011-10-21T08:13:00.001-07:002011-10-21T08:13:03.009-07:00The St. Marys Rivery, by April YatesThe water is moving by at a pace which is tranquil and calming to the human mind. I sit hand in hand with him, legs just touching, resting on the bench, watching the sight. The water has a glint of sparkle as the sun hits the ever moving surface, and seems to have secrets lurking beneath it.<br />
The St. Mary's River is a river full of history. It is a place full of stories from people who are from all corners of the globe, and from all walks of life. It is a place that everyone can enjoy from a young child splashing in the water to an elderly couple taking a slow stroll along the shore. I feel blessed to be near the St. Mary's River. It brings a sense of comfort to me while I'm at school, because I grew up in a town with a river as well.<br />
The water moving through the St. Mary's River is alive and changing, and yet in the same instant is unchanging and as faithful to Sault Ste. Marie, as is the snow in December. The river is unique in this way, watching generations grow old and new generations come into play. I thought about this as I sat on a bench with him, our hands interlocked. It was great to see him, and especially to bring him to this place, this park, and the water. <br />
I told him about the first weekend I was here, and how a group of friends and I decided to 'explore the Sault' we took a hike downtown. It was the first time I had seen the locks, and the St. Mary's. We went up what is known as the "Tower of History", and climbed all 291 stairs to see the sights from above. It was well worth the climb. The sight of the river was incredible. It made me feel at home, and filled me with a sense of wonder. <br />
We watched the elderly couple next to us and wondered if that would be us. The river held our thoughts from each other. It would remember us, remember this moment, and in turn we would remember it. There are so many things unspoken; that the ripples of the water can speak for us.<br />
I've been at Lake Superior State University for a little over a month now, and I see the water every day. From the campus I can see Canada and view the St. Mary's River. I only have a few memories from this beautiful sight so far, but it seems to be a part of daily life here. My favorite part about the view is that it is now part of my home. I love knowing that I can take a walk downtown and let the water talk to me, tell its stories, and feel its immense history.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-88529979856694496642011-10-21T08:09:00.000-07:002011-10-21T08:09:13.643-07:00Stellanova's Passion, by Leslie AskwithI met the poet Stellanova Osborn when I was working for the Sault Tribe newspaper. I must have gone there to interview her but can’t remember the details of our conversation, although I have a vivid impression of her presence. <br />
She lived in an apartment at Lake Superior State College, as it was called at the time, with a view of the St. Mary’s River and Canada on the other side. The window overlooked the bridge connecting the two nations and the steel mill with its plumes of smoke and occasional fires burning at the tops of stacks like an Al Gore nightmare. She can’t have loved the sight, for her poetry expresses profound feelings for the St. Mary’s River country and the man to whom she was married for two days, Chase Osborn, the only Michigan governor from the Upper Peninsula. <br />
Stellanova was a wisp of a woman, 92 years old, a glowing presence, light skin and thin white hair. Her body seemed so insubstantial that it seemed to be little more than a frame upon which to support her spirit. Her face was animated and her eyes, lively. Perhaps she was happy to have a visitor, perhaps glad to have someone asking questions about her life, as I must have been there to do, but more likely, she was always an interested participant in her own life. <br />
For her past was intriguing. Her story could have been portrayed as historically important, mystically beautiful and scandalous. For most of her adult life she had worked for a former Michigan governor, Chase Osborn, who, with his wife, Lillian, adopted Stellanova Brunt when she was 37. Upon the death of his, by then, estranged wife Lillian, in 1948, the adoption was annulled and she married her adopted father. He was 87 and she, 54. He died two days after the marriage. <br />
On the day I visited, she reminisced about her life with her beloved “governor” on Duck Island as though they’d watched the sun set over Lake George a week ago, not more than 37 years before. She spoke dramatically, in a style as expressive as the words of her poems. “Golden deed on golden deed, Did not so much, Set this man apart, As sunrise after sunrise, Stored in his heart.” (From Man Apart) <br />
At the end of our visit she read a poem aloud. It was from a collection of her poetry, Summer Songs on the St. Mary’ and when she finished, she autographed a copy and presented it to me … “ With good wishes for her hard work and the famous group of humans to which she contributes, Sincerely, Stellanova Osborn and the Governor, December 20, 1986.”<br />
Stellanova died two years after our visit and was buried next to the governor on Duck Island, on a point of land overlooking the St. Mary’s River. Her gravesite is as she’d hoped it would be, marked by a boulder and shaded by trees. “When I lie down in my last sleep, My flesh and bones and dust shall keep, Contented company with these, Northern rocks and northern trees, That I have loved so long! And when some soul their music hears, Attuned to the symphonic spheres, That song shall be my song!” (Pleasant Dreams)<br />
Her poetry intertwines her profound love for the governor with the St. Mary’s River country, specifically, the island where they spent six months of the year. Duck Island is separated from the east side of Sugar Island by a string of small lakes and narrow streams and is owned by the University of Michigan and open to the public. When I visited there with my Girl Scouts in the 1990s, we were accompanied by the property’s caretaker, a Native man who teased the girls by pointing out the porcupine quills he’d stuck into crevices of his truck’s front bumper, an inscrutable joke to most of us white folks. <br />
It was a damp cloudy day and as we wandered around the main living area, it was easy to envision life there as Stellanova knew it. There were several log cabins on a hill, all with porches overlooking Lake George where she surely sat at twilight “While the moon and the evening star, Peer over the alder’s shoulder, And even the littlest clouds, Are admiring themselves in the water.” (From Twilight Mirror)<br />
In the morning she bathed in the river … “To come upon, This shore at morn Is being like Aurora born.” … My spine is cold, My hands are ice, But this - oh, this Is Paradise.” (From Sudden Glory) And she swam in the river at night. “What have nights in Paris, To compare with nights like these, Where I can see the Big Dipper, Between two pin cherry trees? – Where my camp-fire’s smoke and my frosty breath, Are one with the Milky Way, And the river closing over my head, Has taught me that to pray, Is to bathe the spirit at the start, And the ending of each day!” (From High Life) <br />
One of the structures was a decaying three-sided sleeping room, just the size of a bed, where, our guide told us, the governor slept on a mattress of balsam boughs when there was too much commotion in the main cabin. I remember it as being built of logs, although my memory is sometimes faulty, and considered whether or not she may have been referring to this place when she wrote, “The logs that shelter no one now, Still speak. How they have proved, No cabin can be desolate, That has been so much loved!” (From Eloquence)<br />
Her poems enrich my experience of the St. Mary’s River Country. I recognize the meaning in her words when biking along Scenic Drive on a peaceful misty morning. “God walks upon these waters in the morning, In the sublimity of mists that roll, From Echo reaches to the Neebish Rapids, Flooding the deepest fiords of the soul.” (from October Dawn) They express my reasons for taking my sorrows into the forest. “When I carry, The woes of the world, Into the woods, Branches reach out, And brush them gently off.” (From Censors) <br />
She may be speaking to us in other ways as well. As I was writing this, the phone rang and someone asked for “Star.” I said I was not her and wondered if it was simply coincidence that a call came for someone else named Star while I was thinking about Stellanova or whether it was the kind of divine happenstance she may have been referring to when she wrote, “The sun will come. The chickadees are calling. The weeping fog will rise. There is more to the world today and always, Than meets the eyes.” (From Curtain)moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-86244806597947540412011-10-21T08:06:00.001-07:002011-10-21T08:06:41.456-07:00A Poem by Jennifer RandellJust Across the St. Mary’s River<br />
sitting in the car<br />
I stare down<br />
at the water below<br />
calm<br />
carrying massive cargo<br />
ships blow their horns<br />
locks open<br />
close<br />
rising water<br />
open<br />
ships continue<br />
right beside<br />
raging river rapid<br />
flowing over the rocks<br />
rushing past the men<br />
standing in the rapids<br />
casting and reeling<br />
hoping to catch fish<br />
right beside<br />
where the water gives way<br />
to the green shores<br />
the trees sprout<br />
along the winding<br />
beautiful boardwalk<br />
where couples walk<br />
enjoying the view<br />
of the beautiful<br />
glorious<br />
blue waves<br />
of the river<br />
the great divide<br />
of two countries<br />
my countriesmoderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-75076568820561784282011-10-21T08:04:00.001-07:002011-10-21T08:04:50.504-07:00A Poem, Anonymous, but powerfulFlow,<br />
Change,<br />
Constant motion;<br />
It’s kinetic state ignorant of nationality, language, or religion<br />
The bridge o’er which spans is locked and guarded<br />
By the constantly vigilant watchkeeps of two nations<br />
And yet she moves, ever onward<br />
<br />
Dammed to provide heat and light<br />
And yet she moves, ever onward<br />
Uncaring and unknowing<br />
Of the conflicts of Nations and people and machines<br />
<br />
Icy and swift she flows,<br />
And nips at the toes of anyone daring enough;<br />
Daring enough to enter her embrace<br />
And still she moves onward<br />
<br />
She dances with the light;<br />
Dancing with the light, of Day and Night<br />
A ceaseless,<br />
Primal,<br />
Timeless dance;<br />
Which Humanity is blessed to behold<br />
A dance as old as the Earth itself<br />
<br />
Mesmerized I gaze,<br />
Into the Heart of the City.<br />
And I wonder, just wonder<br />
How old she could be<br />
As she moves,<br />
Ever onward;<br />
And dreams of the Seamoderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-62736053725223677662011-10-21T08:03:00.001-07:002011-10-21T08:03:11.656-07:00St. Marys River, by Alexis Schefka, LSSU StudentI'm sitting on a bench right now, the light from my computer blocking my vision from anything else around me. If I take it away my eyes could adjust, but it's getting dark. Sherman Park is where I am, the beach is about five feet away from me. I'm looking out onto what looks like a giant bay. I can see windmills in the distance and lights from what looks like a factory over in Canada. It feels like the trees are getting getting ready to end their day just like we are. They look very relaxed, especially with each branch and leaf swaying in the chilly night breeze. I don't have a jacket but it's peaceful enough that I don't mind. The sky is the prettiest right now. The horizon directly in front of me is very pink. Whenever I see that I think, “red sky at night, sailors delight.” That means tomorrow will be a nice day, and in the Soo, that doesn't seem to happen a lot. I think sunsets are such strange things when I actually think back and think about what they are. Any other time of day you cannot stare directly at the sun but at this time, you can. It would be sad if not for the fact that you know it's rising someplace else. When it finally sets, it almost feels like the sun is underneath you, but you know that it is just sharing its energy with others.<br />
The water seems to be holding its breath for how calm it is. Nothing seems to be moving or living at all. But I know that as soon as I were to submerge myself underneath it, it wouldn't change at all unless I had the type of adaptation that marine life do. It seems creepy in a way especially if the water is completely black with darkness. In that case I feel safe on this piece of land, but with the sense of safety comes a twinge of guilt; guilt for living on the safe side.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-85467719077203387292011-10-21T08:01:00.000-07:002011-10-21T08:01:02.470-07:00St. Marys River, by Mark Stephenson, LSSU StudentThe Saint Mary's River is a feature of the Soo which many have taken for granted. In the mind of a local, the river is such basic feature of the land that, just like air, earth, or sky, is simply there. They do not spare a thought as to how strongly the town is shaped by the presence of the river and it's locks, nor to how much money and attention it brings. It is, at most a source of good fishing and annoying tourists; something which separate us from all of those Canadians, who constantly seem to be coming over.<br />
In the eyes of an outsider, however, the river is an amazing thing, both an artery of trade, and source of natural wonder; and ab excuse to buy fudge. Dear old Sault Sainte Marie Michigan may not be the most touristy of tourist towns, focused as it is on such serious topics as it's university, it's active border, and all the fishing, but in the eyes of a visitor - or, I dare say, fudgie - the ago-worn buildings bare dignity and age, rather than just a desperate need for new shingles. Indeed, to such eyes the river is an amazing thing, filled with all sorts of amazing ships and interesting things - this is where a local would complain about the constant noise - and how one can sit on a park bench, and simply watch it all slide by.<br />
But what of the eyes of one who has come here often enough to have such wide-eyed wonder worn away? Someone who is not as jaded, perhaps, as those who have always sat before the beauty of the river, and yet still cannot claim the title of true resident. Eyes such as these do exist, and as a possessor of such eyes, I can attest to the ability to find continuing wonder in such a river as our dear Saint Mary's. While it might not be the mighty, surging artery of trade and wealth that it once was, while it might not be liquid poetry, flowing as it does in it's otiose fashion, it still possesses a certain beauty.<br />
Early mornings, shrouded with fog; this is the best face the river presents. It is the time of day in which the fishermen still move slowly, not yet warmed by coffee and tea, and prepare for a morning upon the water. Will they catch something? Perhaps. For many, though, the goal is not meat for the table; it is peace upon the water. Drifting out upon the water, surrounded by fog, backdropped by the mills and smoke of Canada, listening to nothing but the ripples of fish; indeed, this is the best way to enjoy the river. A joy least appreciated by those who see it the most, and most appreciated by those who see it the least.<br />
Oh irony, how you never cease to amaze.<br />
So whether you be a jaded local or wide-eyed visitor, don't forget to appreciate that which the river offers. Sit before it, sit upon it; contemplate the quiet fog and beautiful silence of the river and the town upon it. Forget not that wonder comes not only from the bright and colorful, but also from the slow and soulful. Those who have look past this beauty, be it due to a jaded mind, an obscured eye, or being too occupied by chapped fingers, I suggest simply that you take the time to reflect; what you'll see will surprise you.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-38824912657778504642011-10-21T07:59:00.001-07:002011-10-21T07:59:43.291-07:00St. Marys River, by Devin Provo, LSSU studentI watch as the freighter passes silently through previously calm water, sending ripples to the edges of the river. I have been sitting here for a while now, taking in the sights and sounds near this river. Nearby there is a playground full of young children laughing and playing with their parents. They are oblivious to the awe inspiring sight lurking just a few hundred feet in front of them. My attention is diverted back to the enormous ship looming ahead of me. The water level rises as the ship continues to glide swiftly through the cool, blue water. Looking around, I see others marvel at its magnitude. They too look as though they came to the river to find some peace, almost as if it is a temporary escape. This provides a source for the smiles upon the faces of all who witness this sight. The freighter passes out of my field of vision and slowly the water resumes to its previous state. This simple event has brought happiness to each and every one of the people who were in its presence. It is the simple things in life that bring us the most joy.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-31220659875193202572011-10-21T07:57:00.001-07:002011-10-21T07:57:49.587-07:00Relaxing on the St. Marys, By Sean Majer, LSSU StudentAs I get out of the car at Sherman Park, I feel the calm, cool breeze blow past me. I look out and see the vast, flat St. Mary’s river. As I walk down the narrow sidewalk I can see the remnants of a broken staircase. You can see how flowing water has carved the landscape. The hill leading down to the beach is eroded and uneven. As I take my first step into the cold, wet sand I feel how soft it is. It squeezes in between my toes as I walk to sit by the water. I notice how clear the water is and walk in. Only then do I realize how shallow it is. I begin to wonder how long it stays at that depth. However, it is getting close to sunset so I choose to stay on shore. <br />
I look for a place to sit down. At the end of the beach to my left and right there are large rocks that extend into the water. I consider sitting on them, but then I see an old log buried in the sand directly in the center of the beach. It is perfect timing because the sun is just about to set. The shades of orange and pink show through the clouds. It looks so beautiful and it’s so calming. As I sit here, I listen to all of the different sounds of nature. I hear the ducks quacking to my right and seagulls to my left. I hear the soft splashing of the water as it comes ashore. Nature is a beautiful thing and it has so many sounds; all you need to do is listen. <br />
As I look out over the water I notice the bright glow on the water from the sunset. I see hills in the distance that stand out even more with the sun behind them. Out of the corner of my eye I barely see the reflection of the sun on the windmills as they spin. I continue to sit on my log and observe nature. Just as the sun starts to disappear below the horizon I can see the flashing lights on top of the hills in Canada and on the buoys in the water. <br />
Nature is my second home. I love being outside and being active. I feel so at peace and relaxed when I am outdoors. I would rather be in a secluded spot alone, but at night Sherman Park was pretty much just that. When I need to get away from everything and relax, this is probably where you will find me.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-42231376489648621812011-09-06T16:46:00.000-07:002011-09-06T16:46:04.657-07:00First Catch First Fish, by Richard WarkFishing, yes something that most people would expect a lad born in Tatamagouche, Nova Scotia, Canada would have mastered instinctually. And yes Tatamagouche is a real place in Canada’s east coast. I was born there but moved to Ontario in the early 1950’s, finally settling in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada in the late 1970’s.<br />
<br />
I had always wanted to fish, always watched with silent envy those who fished. I think I was embarrassed to ask. Knowing that people would have, in my way of thinking, expected this would be a natural ability, but sadly it was not. But all that changed when I turned forty. Something about that age drives people to do all sorts of things they had always wished they had done, like owning a Corvette, driving a motorcycle, skimming the water in a speed boat. Well you get the idea.<br />
<br />
It was a Friday morning; my co-workers and I were sitting around the table in the coffee room at work discussing the upcoming Salmon Derby, the best lures, rods, reels and fishing lines. This time instead of sitting there and nodding my head and interjecting a ’yes’ or ’you're right’, every now and again, I opened my mouth and let them know that I had never fished a day in my life, but sure wished I knew how.<br />
<br />
That was the changing point in my fishing life, the "A-ha" moment if you will. I let people know that I wanted to learn how to fish and not down the road but right away. I wanted to be a part of this year’s Salmon Derby or at least attempt to fish. A dear friend took me under his wing and showed me the ins and outs of fishing from the river bank. I should also let you know that I have an extreme fear of water, especially when in a boat, canoe, probably compounded by the fact that I never learned to swim until I was in my thirties and then in a YMCA pool with a life guard close at hand.<br />
<br />
He told me what fishing supplies to buy and then went further by showing me how to cast and how to reel in a fish, if one was caught. I listened and watched and adsorbed it all. Saturday morning I was up at four o’clock, dressed, ate breakfast, packed a lunch and thermos and had gathered together my new fishing gear. I could hardly contain myself as I drove down to F. H. Clergue park. This was the day I had anticipated for so many years. It was now going to become a reality. <br />
<br />
Climbing down the river bank and then standing on the edge of the St. Mary’s river bank my inner self was vibrating: I was so anxious to get this ‘thing’ started. Would I catch a fish? Others around me that morning had had some luck, others had not. Which category would I be in at day’s end? I had convinced myself that if I didn’t catch a fish today,I would keep on trying until I did. I would not give up.<br />
<br />
With that thought in my mind I cast my first line and slowly reeled it in. I could see my line in the distance, displayed by the moon’s glow as it hit the still, silent waters. It was hard to imagine that I was standing there on the banks of the St. Mary’s river. Having lived here for almost twenty years and this was the first time I had come near it, or had even taken the time to notice it. Standing there that morning I was in awe of it. A river that offered a magnificent view from where I stood, sporting fun to boaters and sea-doo enthusiasts, a means of transportation for industry, a source of hydro electric power, and probably so much more. And now this morning it was offering me the opportunity to satisfy one of my life’s goals.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I felt my line gently being tugged. I began to reel in my line, ever so slowly. Was it a snag? Sure felt like it; I gave my line a tug and the line tugged right back. Sure enough it was a snag, I was caught on something or so I had convinced myself. A gentleman next to me came over near me, coaching me to take it slow, reel it in slow. The gentleman made my heart leap when he assured me that this may not be a snag, but the real thing, most likely a fair sized salmon.<br />
<br />
After what seemed like forever, but in reality was only about five to ten minutes, the hook on my line revealed itself--well not really. The hook was not visible, but instead was covered by the mouth of a wrestling salmon. Once landed, a word I learned the meaning of that morning, I was able to stand proud. Who would have believed it: my first cast ever and it landed me my first fish ever. The St. Mary’s River had sent me my first fishing catch and not the last one I might add. I went on that year to catch on average five to six salmon each morning for about a week.<br />
<br />
I will always be grateful to the St. Mary’s River for being there, right in my back yard. Just like in the east coast I had the Atlantic Ocean, here I had the St. Mary’s River, a river that fulfilled my dreams far beyond that year and the years to come. Something that the Atlantic Ocean never could do. Thank you St. Mary’s River.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-61352254529009902632011-08-15T07:55:00.000-07:002011-08-15T12:04:11.286-07:00Water here, Water there, Water water Everywhere, by Helen (Gianakura) Reinkensmeyer Class of '46, Soo High Teacher of Latin at Soo High from 1950 - 1953Water here,<br />
Water there<br />
Water, water<br />
Everywhere<br />
<br />
The heart of Soo is the water. St. Mary’s River supports a quiet, essential, environmentally clean industry: freighters shipping ore, coal, wood, wheat, to name just a few products, from Lake Superior, through the locks to Lake Huron, then either to Lake Michigan or Lake Erie majestically passing through the locks. As a youngster growing up in the Soo, at night the fog horns and the boat whistles, one long, one short, guiding the freighters to and through the locks would lull us children to sleep. Outside, in the still of the evening we could hear the rapids splashing head over heels on the rocks. With all this water, our drinking water was always cold and delicious. The air was fresh and clean.<br />
<br />
It was very common for residents, as it still is today, to have a “cabin” to spend the summers and weekends. Such a luxury was not ours. Instead, we relied on either some one driving us to the beach or taking the bus. This was during the 1930’s and 40’s. For a very long trip we could get the bus at the corner of our house at Carrie and Johnson. With towels and swim suits we waited patiently for the bus. A shorter trip would be to catch to bus downtown. Our destination by bus was Sherman Park, or the Pumping Station where water was purified and send to the city for our use. <br />
<br />
The park was fun for children because we could wade out quite a distance and be safe. There were play swings and slides and, of course, a concession stand. Often on Sunday families would gather there for a picnic so the mothers would catch up on the gossip of the past week as they guardedly kept an eye on their children.<br />
<br />
Swimming was not the only delight for us. The river provided us access to the large park after walking across all four locks. There we could climb huge rocks and pretend we were the king of the castle. We looked for “clay babies” and Indian arrowheads and paused to watch the big kingfishers swoop down to catch a fish. We could actually see the rapids and had to shout to be heard. That was before the hydraulic plant hushed the rapids.<br />
<br />
How generous can a river be? It gave us a chance to visit a foreign country by taking us “across the river to Canada” on the ferry boat. My father, Chris Gianakura, owner of the American Café, served many Canadians when they came to the Soo. He gave their Canadian money to my mother who saved until she had enough to take the family to Canada for a day visit. We walked from Carrie Street to the Portage Street dock. With a Canadian dime in our hands, we placed it on the ledge of the check-in window and then walked through the turnstile. Off we ran to the dock where the ferry boat was waiting for us. We couldn’t decide whether to stay on the main floor or mount the iron stairs to get higher for a better view. Cars rolled on to the ferryboat as the worker waved one car at a time. Seagulls flew about swishing close to us. They were looking for something to eat. <br />
<br />
In no time at all, we were in a foreign country where the King and Queen of England were displayed everywhere; where we could buy English bone china teacups for $1.25; where we could buy English toffee in decorative tins and best of all, bite into a Butter Raisin Tart, catching the syrup with our fingers. This was an adventure that only the St. Mary’s River could provide and it was right in our back yard!<br />
<br />
The locks were closed during World War II robbing us of our dearest pleasures. But these pleasures are now priceless memories and to this day, the St. Mary’s River never lets me forget them.<br />
moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-20359481845379051482011-07-23T08:04:00.000-07:002011-07-23T08:04:16.339-07:00No Civilized Life, This, by Ken Miller<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENUntMlipZqT-nBACbLXJaRLra4vNfcyCHuVEAcV2K72OpciW9JHsk5RvnQwz5qP2x0a1WynM0aHncqVscwg_WEpGnTCDeHth8NNxlNWZ39TT4eNCaNDDqRKQ0m8JpnwkKTYVoAHKFgM/s1600/RExLarry.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="190" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENUntMlipZqT-nBACbLXJaRLra4vNfcyCHuVEAcV2K72OpciW9JHsk5RvnQwz5qP2x0a1WynM0aHncqVscwg_WEpGnTCDeHth8NNxlNWZ39TT4eNCaNDDqRKQ0m8JpnwkKTYVoAHKFgM/s320/RExLarry.gif" /></a></div><br />
<br />
There’s something about the Ste. Marys that brings out the joy in people. Not the not the joy of a mere civilized life, but the splash-in-the-mud-puddle joy of an uninhibited three year-old. There is something that releases the joy of childhood in someone no matter how long they have been around, no matter what they have seen, how many times they have scolded their children or scowled at a spouse. When they venture out upon the Ste Marys the river will release that hidden joy within.<br />
<br />
So it was no surprise when, as I sat reading on the deck of Devil’s Dream, II (my gently aging Tartan 34 sailboat), that I saw Rex and Larry putting downstream on a home-made raft. It was a latter-day Huck and a very pale Jim making their way south on what looked like three pallets, some blocks of Styrofoam, and two old tires, powered by a tiny outboard motor. Seated on two home-built chairs and flying the Jolly Roger (under the National Ensign, of course), they were on their way back in time to their tenth year, each shedding 60-odd years with enthusiasm and, I must admit, a certain flair.<br />
<br />
I immediately jumped up and in my most officious voice asked if their vessel was Coast Guard inspected. They proudly pointed to a registration number on the side of the contraption proclaiming that it was properly registered with the State of Michigan as a watercraft. I was astounded into speechlessness, a state that I seldom occupy.<br />
<br />
I quickly ducked below and grabbed my camera. The picture you see here is how I found them on the river. By now I expect that Rex and Larry are somewhere south of here, lying full-length on a sandbar, eating their fresh-caught dinner, hiding from the slave-catchers, and having the time of their young lives.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-43553794329588696532011-07-19T19:32:00.001-07:002011-07-19T19:32:51.704-07:00The Dog Days of Summer on the St. Mary’s River, By Sharon BrunnerThe first time I spent any time on the St. Mary’s River was back in 1993 with my beloved. The canoe glided peacefully down the river just yards from the river bank. The water glistened as the paddles skimmed the surface of the water. Purple and pink hues were splashed across the evening sky. Seagulls circled above us and crows could be heard cawing off in the distance. We paddled the canoe from a friend’s home off Riverside Drive to the channel where the Sugar Island Ferry transports passengers to and from the island. We turned the canoe around and headed back to where we started. A small island sparked our attention and we paddled towards it. The island sported a couple of trees and lots of foliage. Once our interest was satisfied, we headed back to the home on Riverside Drive to bring the canoe back to shore.<br />
Another peaceful evening, my husband and I sat on a large rock and watched a ship travel up the St. Mary’s River. We could tell the ship was empty because much of its hull was above water. We surmised the ship was on its way to pick up coal or ore pellets from the shores of Canada. Many ships travel the waters of the St. Mary’s River. A full moon lit up the sky and had shown a spotlight on the ship. The evening air was becoming a little chilly as the end of August was approaching.<br />
Our children loved swimming to the man made tower that was placed 30 yards from the shore. The river bed was dug deep by large machinery to support the concrete pilings. Large rocks with an average diameter of one yard or larger were placed around the bottom of the tower and extended several feet above the water’s surface. The water is deep around the tower and the family felt elated when they reached the rocks and climbed up on top of them. <br />
An Osprey family builds a large nest on top of the tower every year to raise their young. During a wind storm, which seemed to be prevalent this year, the Osprey lost their nest and the eggs. We were disheartened, then happy to see the nest was rebuilt again, only to be damaged by another wind storm. The Osprey nest is in disarray hanging precariously off one of the beams. However, one small Osprey has survived the ravages of the wind and waits patiently as its mother brings food to nourish its growing body. <br />
During the fall of 1997 we invited another member to join our family, a dog named Moon. She was a medium sized dog, weighing approximately 60 pounds. During the summer months, she loved swimming. We would take her for a short walk of approximately 100 yards to the shores of the St. Mary’s River so she could bask in the coolness of the water that was fed by the cold depths of Lake Superior. She would also swim to the rocks of the tower and walk around the surface with the rest of the family. It appeared that a smile crossed her face when she reached the rocks. <br />
A few years later another dog joined our family, Snickers, a Sheppard mix. He ended up being 90 pounds, a big teddy bear who loves to snuggle. Snickers was nervous at first until he learned how to swim. But with careful guidance he picked up this skill and learned to love the St. Mary’s River as much as we do. He chases sticks as we throw them out to the deeper water. Snickers loves to fetch; but he does not bring the sticks back to us so we trick him into giving up one stick as we throw another. <br />
Yet another dog joined our household and his name is Doogie. Doogie, being predominantly black lab, adapted to the water very quickly. He loves to fetch sticks also. Doogie and Snickers retrieve a large stick and swim in together holding the same stick in their teeth. Our neighbors think this behavior is hilarious. <br />
As Moon was reaching the end of her life, crippled with arthritis in her hips, she found it difficult to sit or stand. She would pace back and forth in the river knowing that the cool water helped relieve some of the arthritic pain and soothe her muscles. We said our goodbyes on February 7, 2011. Moon is very much a part of our happy memories associated with the St. Mary’s River. Doogie and Snickers still enjoy the river. <br />
Our life in Sault Ste. Marie and experiences with the St. Mary’s River have led us to believe we always want to live near water. We love wading in the river, watching passing ships and feeling the serenity that our connection to the river brings us. The overall feeling of our life by the river is one of much pleasure. <br />
Let’s all celebrate the Dog Days of Summer!moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-20679252791544599772011-07-05T05:40:00.000-07:002011-07-05T05:40:20.785-07:00Morning Storm on the St Marys, by Jillena Rose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMn50XqEtVOolr14jRp0zPROJiE2F8jekx7tb0uAJwOMnaCtWQVZsyT3f2b1e45mELIhUUnzDwjUPHlvZFWThwzqbVbo_QXbdpc8QL8Iq1NwLZiKmS2ox3n_7Vo6LHhk_jF9E1K48SVts/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMn50XqEtVOolr14jRp0zPROJiE2F8jekx7tb0uAJwOMnaCtWQVZsyT3f2b1e45mELIhUUnzDwjUPHlvZFWThwzqbVbo_QXbdpc8QL8Iq1NwLZiKmS2ox3n_7Vo6LHhk_jF9E1K48SVts/s320/001.JPG" /></a></div>moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-1531689310610149622011-06-18T06:30:00.000-07:002011-07-21T07:26:34.915-07:00Four Mile Beach, Jillena RoseLate evening on a barren sandbar<br />
And three people range<br />
Its perimeter in the long<br />
Silent shadows of sunset.<br />
<br />
Water moves.<br />
The sand is moved upon.<br />
If you walk the place they meet,<br />
You become part of the<br />
<br />
Pull...release...pull...release<br />
<br />
There are no deep thoughts here,<br />
No rage, resolution,<br />
Conviction or conjecture.<br />
Only the movement that acts<br />
<br />
On the senses. Senses that move<br />
Over shadows, shadows<br />
In low light<br />
On the sand bar.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-2358184605073052532011-06-17T07:57:00.000-07:002011-06-17T07:57:10.784-07:00The St Marys River, by Peter GianakuraWhen my siblings and I would visit the Sault Locks back in the 1930's and as we approached the first lock, we could hear a roar coming from the north near the Canadian border. We soon discovered this sound came from the St Marys Rapids. As we crossed the locks and came closer the sound grew louder.<br />
<br />
While attending Sault High, a classmate invited me to fish off the shore and cast into the St Marys Rapids. I had never fished at that time, but my friend had countless times. As we stood at the rocky shoreline I could see close up the roiling, boiling untamed surge of the St Marys River as the waters hit and splashed over the rocks and boulders. Some of these rocks were visible, others were hidden, but all added to the disturbance of the flow and to the roaring sound. I was mesmerized at such a spectacle, such a wonder.<br />
<br />
Today, crossing over the International Bridge, the much tamer rapids appear. Rocks and boulders are now much more evident, the water much slower and not as disturbing. At this point man has tamed the avid path of the St Marys River.<br />
<br />
Still the St Marys flows with a swift and powerful current and one still wonders in amazement how the native Americans, by the thousands, fished these waters in the mad tumble of water with rocks and boulders threatening their canoes and lives. Their skill was admirable and the st Marys River was the home of endless fresh water fish. The St Marys River is the dividing border between two great nations and continues to feed on both sides the senses of sight and sound and the natural species of fish that are still available. This border not only creates a division between two great nations but it also creates a spiritual connection, a friendly relationship with our Canadian neighbors.<br />
<br />
Besides the ambiance of its flowing majesty and electric power, the river also provides us a means of conveying tons and tons of new materials and grain to meet the demands and needs of our society.<br />
<br />
It's easy to take the St Marys for granted, but regardless, her waters have blessed us all in the past, in the present and in the future.<br />
<br />
May she continue to feed us body and soul.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-84970375771764740382011-06-17T07:33:00.001-07:002011-06-17T07:33:08.613-07:00Family and the River, by Cris RollI think when you live on a body of water like the St. Marys River (or Lake Superior), it’s so integral to your life that you often don’t think about it. It’s like your family. You take it for granted. It’s just there. You don’t think about the unique or odd or wonderful things about your family because they just are your family. It’s only when you get away from your family as you’re growing up and experiencing other families that you begin to see your own family more objectively. And, I daresay, you appreciate your family more when you compare them to other families.<br />
<br />
The river’s like that in a way.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, there was nothing more comforting than hearing the freighters calling back and forth to each other in the night. I still enjoy going to sleep to that sound. Train whistles sound lonely to me, but freighter horns are deep and rich and comforting. Like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold night. I have a friend who I used to take late night strolls with around town who could tell which freighter was which just by the sound of the horns. It was something he picked up working on the boats.<br />
<br />
My mother told stories about crossing the river on the ferry during World War Two to get a turkey for Thanksgiving because there was a meat shortage over here on the American side. My Veyette cousins who lived downriver told stories about crossing back and forth to Canada on the ice every winter. In my adolescence, our neighborhood gaggle of girls spent nearly every summer day basking in the sun at Sherman Park and eating popsicles from the concession stand over by the pavilion. One of the moms hauled us back and forth happily, I would guess, to get rid of us in the afternoons because we always congregated in her kitchen or the porch of the house next door. And as teenagers, we all heard stories about the dating couples that parked somewhere down by the river “to watch the submarine races.”<br />
<br />
Before my dad died in 1957, he worked at the Locks and rode his bicycle across the top of the gates to get to his work station inside the big stone administration building. Now there are railings on those gates to prevent accidents. My dad never fell off or rode his bike off the gates.<br />
<br />
In the early ‘80s, I moved downstate for about a year. There was one hot summer night when my friend and I drove around East Lansing looking for a dirt road because we missed the Upper Peninsula so much. We finally found a two- or three-mile stretch of dirt road but it turned into pavement and, there we were, back in civilization again. <br />
<br />
I felt landlocked in East Lansing. I longed to see the river and Lake Superior again. I realized that I just needed to know it was there, whether I looked at it every day or not. The river and the lake had given me my sense of orientation and direction in the world. They’re always to the north (unless you live downriver).<br />
<br />
When I left the Sault it was after the air force base had closed at Kincheloe. There weren’t many jobs, and I had gone looking for something better. I ended up in a job I hated, and the wages were no better than what I had made in the Sault. So many young people had left to never come back. People made jokes about making sure the last one to leave the U.P. would turn off the lights. But one day, I decided that everybody couldn’t leave. And I was one of them.<br />
<br />
I took my chances, and I came back. Back to the Sault. Back to the river. And it worked out over time, although I was unemployed for months. And now, I can look at the river every day if I want to. I often don’t. But I know it’s there. Kind of like family, there when you need it.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-53456899369345386802011-06-14T08:14:00.000-07:002011-06-14T08:14:54.523-07:00A Life on the River As told to Gregory ZimmermanA Life on the River<br />
As told to Gregory Zimmerman<br />
<br />
Mose was a bit worried. Christmas season 1941 was coming up and he had just been laid off by the Army Corps of Engineers. He was 21 now and would have made a career of the Corps, but it wasn’t going to work out that way for him.<br />
<br />
He had gained great experience on the river with the Corps, including working the river ice survey by skates. Skating the river provides a real close-up view. He knew the river well before that job, and even better now. And he knew his way around boats.<br />
<br />
Growing up in downtown Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan, he was never far from the river. The odd jobs he worked as a kid included helping out on the US/Canada ferry. (Other odd jobs included helping at Callahan’s grocery store and even earning some commissions by connecting visitors to the Sault with boarding houses they could stay in. His dad had an unusual odd-job related to the river as well, working as an extra in the 1922 silent film “The Rapids,” filmed here in the Sault and featuring a very new-to-movies Mary Astor.)<br />
<br />
That afternoon, Mose was up on the second floor of the federal building, looking into enlisting in the Navy. The sign posted on the board stated that would require a trip to Green Bay. That was a disappointment. A trip to Green Bay wasn’t going to work out at that time. Walking down the hall, he was approached by a man who asked it he’d like to work on the Favorite.<br />
<br />
Mose knew the Favorite, just as everyone in town did. It was a heavy wrecking tug, one of the biggest around. It wasn’t the first tug to be called the Favorite, in fact it was the fourth, all pronounced with the long i. Its predecessor had an illustrious career working the river but had been sent off to distant duties. This slightly smaller Favorite had also earned a strong reputation for its muscle on the lakes.<br />
<br />
Mose spent a year on the Favorite, including time as wheelman. The work was all across the Great Lakes, freeing grounded freighters, salvage operations, even light duty ice breaking. Mose got additional boat experience, including taking evasive maneuvers. During one particular night-time storm in south Lake Michigan, a breakwall appeared unexpectedly, visible only by the lightning illuminating the skies (this was pre-radar). Mose took her hard to starboard and prevented an collision with the breakwall. <br />
<br />
The experience wheeling in the Great Lakes paid off. Mose ended up in the Coast Guard, in an LCI flotilla, in action in Africa and the landings at Sicily and Salerno. But before they could help invade Sicily and Italy, the flotilla had to get across the Atlantic. An LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) was designed for landing troops and equipment on the beach, not to cross the ocean. They were rather short ships to make an Atlantic crossing at only 158 feet long with a 23 foot beam, and with a flat bottom. They crossed the ocean in convoy, protected by larger, more heavily armed ships. <br />
<br />
During one big storm in the Atlantic , some confusion cropped up about the exact location of all the other ships in the convoy. Mose was wheeling an LCI when he saw the boat immediately ahead looming closer. Another hard to starboard maneuver prevented a collision with the other boat. Mose served with the flotilla in Africa, Italy and England where the flotilla began to prepare for the landing in Normandy. Mose got to come home before Normandy and returned home (on the Queen Mary) safely. <br />
<br />
Back from the war, the river continued to figure large in Mose’s everyday life in the Sault. Fire fighting became his career but his avocation was the river and woods. An avid fisherman (and hunter -- Mose also stewards an excellent 80-acre parcel he re-forested, the now 35-year old spruces provides great habitat.) <br />
<br />
Mose knowledge of the river continued to expand as he spent hours and hours from the upper river to Drummond in his own boat and while ice fishing, often with Billie, his wife of 50+ years who has her stories about the river (such as having to run an extra set of keys down to Munuscong when something happened to Mose’s set). <br />
<br />
Even back when others saw the river as a handy place to discharge waste, Mose saw it as a place worth protecting. He has seen slag dumped directly in the river, poorly treated waste water discharged into the river, and seemingly small actions such as people tossing garbage over the side of a boat. None of it makes any sense to him. <br />
<br />
He speaks out against pollution, not in formal hearings, but among his friends and acquaintances. He has been involved in some organized efforts; he worked with Michigan United Conservation Clubs, helping collect petitions for the original Michigan bottle bill. When the Binational Public Advisory Council for the St. Marys River started in the late 1980s, he attended the first few meetings, but found the discussions a bit too drawn out. He viewed his part as being on the river, and talking it up in informal settings. He let others hash out the policies and procedures. <br />
<br />
Mose still maintains his 16’ fishing boat, but at 91 doesn’t get out as much as he’d like to. He’s glad to see that the river is cleaner, but sees that we still have a lot of work to do, much of which involves changing people’s and governments’ opinions and habits. <br />
<br />
We newcomers working on the St. Marys River cleanup recognize that we’re building on the attachment to the river of the previous generations of river residents. Not all of us can talk about spending a life on the river but we’re trying to keep it in good shape for those who can and so that future generations will be able to.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-51892363040027022822011-06-13T16:45:00.000-07:002011-06-13T16:45:45.641-07:00It Really Is Summer, by Britton Ranson OlsonWe have a secret beach my family and I have shared for years picnicking and swimming from. You can't walk or drive to it, but must take a boat to get there. Our first attempt is usually in early June and our last in late September. There have been years we've been able to go into October, but rarely. <br />
<br />
Every year the configuration of the beach changes, sometimes pretty dramatically. It’s always interesting to see what's happened during our first visit back after a rough winter. Sometimes there is a stream carved through it, sometimes an internal pool has been created, sometimes it’s big and broad and sometimes there is almost no beach at all. But it's always fun. And every year I can't wait to return and see what it looks like again.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-38089042569467292032011-06-13T16:41:00.001-07:002011-06-13T16:41:53.254-07:00The St Marys, Big and Blue by Robert FlowersSummer days in the sun<br />
Its rays warning our backs <br />
Upbound, downbound freighters steaming<br />
Their tremendous props churning the water<br />
Their draft, pulling the water to the channel<br />
Walking on the wet sand<br />
Waiting for the water to return<br />
Body surfing the wake to the beach.<br />
<br />
Tossing a daredevil into the calm bay<br />
feeling the thrill of a Northern Pike<br />
fighting to escape the hook and line<br />
12 year old arms, battling a 24 inch monster<br />
I win. Now, how do I remove the hook<br />
without those razor teeth lacerating my finger<br />
It's so slimy, the fish skin<br />
<br />
A yard full of sisters, and neighboring girls<br />
sitting on the lush, soft grass<br />
greased up in tanning oil<br />
soaking in the sun<br />
How could I, or my friend resist<br />
tossing them all into the refreshing water<br />
one at a time<br />
We were teens after all.<br />
<br />
Seemingly endless days of summer<br />
The water was fresh and cold<br />
We couldn't stand to remove ourselves <br />
until our skin was blue<br />
And the night air seemed cold<br />
and we'd shiver for long long time<br />
But the river took away all our cares<br />
and bought peace into our lives<br />
<br />
And the ice froze<br />
And the shovels went to work<br />
pushed by boys, who wanted to play hockey<br />
Goal posts were made from chunks of snow<br />
And we didn't want the girls to play<br />
They always wanted to make the rules<br />
No Slap shots, and now hoisting the puck! They'd cry out<br />
And then, during the game, their goalie would lie prostrate, accross the net<br />
taking away any chance to make a goal<br />
But they could take slap shots, and hoist the puck.<br />
They were girls.<br />
<br />
17 years old<br />
Can I use the canoe with my freind<br />
You can, but don't cross the river in the dark<br />
We won't<br />
Then the night came<br />
We launched the canoe<br />
Not a flashlight to our name<br />
and in the heart of the channel<br />
a freighter steams up river<br />
And we are in the channel<br />
She can't see us<br />
Adrenaline kicks in.<br />
When it's critical, a canoe can move very fast.<br />
We're still alive<br />
<br />
Then we grew up<br />
The river properties grew in value<br />
grew because wealthy people discovered its beauty<br />
Ordinary folks can't afford a house on the river any more.<br />
I would live there still, if I could<br />
And my grandkids would play in the water every day<br />
and my sons would throw their sisters in the water<br />
and the girls would cheat at hockey<br />
and the world would be a great place to live.<br />
<br />
Bob Flowers (Dawn Sundstrom's big brother)moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-9288136148159678872011-06-07T07:08:00.000-07:002011-06-07T07:08:17.714-07:00Memories of Growing Up on the St. Marys River, by Dawn (Cartwright) SundstromMemories of Growing Up on the St. Marys River<br />
<br />
Dawn (Cartwright) Sundstrom<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Every summer as a child I spent on her shores, swimming, floating my cares away. To sit on the dock each day and listen to the soft lapping of water was serene & calming,<br />
<br />
To view the beauty each day was a privilege and we knew we lived somewhere special.<br />
<br />
Sweet memories of boat rides with Dad to Sugar Island to get a Fudge-sickle at the bait store,<br />
<br />
Summers on the beach, watching the big freighters glide by, sucking out water, pushing back frothy waves, upsetting our sand castles.<br />
<br />
Glorious days of swimming with friends and family, first time learning how to Dog Paddle, water-ski, and dive. <br />
<br />
Scary moments of slipping under water and then big brother pulling me up from the depths.<br />
<br />
Docks being built, boats dropping by to visit.<br />
<br />
Party boats at night floating by with music, and people partying onboard.<br />
<br />
Our Wedding in my parent’s front yard along her beautiful shores with a big Freighter saluting us after we took our vows.<br />
<br />
Many days we basked in her greatness, family picnics, swimming all summer long…what lovely days and how I miss her!<br />
<br />
I now live far away from the beautiful St. Marys River but I come home a couple times a year and I soak her in, the pretty blue waters…<br />
<br />
I hope they never turn brown, green, or muddy…please keep her alive because she is our history and our future!moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-91783518012419103372011-05-16T11:50:00.001-07:002011-05-16T11:50:52.708-07:00Wide Mouth of the River, by Jillena RoseWide Mouth of the River<br />
<br />
Four children on a path <br />
between the milkweed field<br />
and the silver river, <br />
the path a narrow muddy string,<br />
nothing like the silver of the river or its big wide mouth.<br />
<br />
Heads down,<br />
heads hung down, on the path after supper:<br />
Makeshift path, makeshift stupid<br />
boring game, real plans dissolving <br />
like a muddy string in the dirty rain.<br />
<br />
The path and the children and the hidden moon.<br />
<br />
If you ask us today, even now,<br />
when we are too old to feel this way,<br />
our voices will crack like river ice when we<br />
talk about it: We were betrayed <br />
by our little sister at supper. She told <br />
our father about our plans, she said<br />
we are not your children anymore<br />
we are really pirates, have really always been<br />
and we<br />
are leaving at dusk<br />
for the mouth of the river and you <br />
will never not hold us in your arms again.moderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180618935953291324.post-39910505702973431682011-05-15T18:31:00.000-07:002011-05-15T18:31:53.623-07:00The River of History, By Tom KellyFor Centuries, the waters of Whitefish Bay <br />
Have made their rocky twenty-one foot leap <br />
Into the St. Marys River Valley<br />
<br />
Its' pregnant waters at seasonal occasions fed<br />
Countless, from native tribes to today's sport fishermen<br />
In such abundance that it is impossible to tally<br />
<br />
The voyageurs named it "Sault," the "Fall" of<br />
The River, dedicated to the Savior's mother<br />
<br />
The Saint Mary's River Valley is home to nearly<br />
A hundred thousand of Yanks and Caucks, with<br />
Finns and Poles, Italians and Greeks, among<br />
Many others<br />
<br />
The river is an umbilical cord between<br />
Superior and Huron, as well as a waterpath<br />
To the Ocean to the East<br />
<br />
Through our travels, my wife, Maryann and I<br />
Have tasted flounder and grouper, trout<br />
And mackerel, but none can compare to a "Superior"<br />
Whitefish feast<br />
<br />
Returning from six weeks in Europe, our home-<br />
ward flight took us above the river, Maryann's<br />
Greatest anticipation was for a "Lake Superior<br />
Highball"<br />
<br />
We Upers were not all born by her waters,<br />
But after forty years living on the river,<br />
Deep in our hearts, we heed the magic <br />
Of this historic river's callmoderatorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05631389332969371560noreply@blogger.com0