Wide Mouth of the River
Four children on a path
between the milkweed field
and the silver river,
the path a narrow muddy string,
nothing like the silver of the river or its big wide mouth.
Heads down,
heads hung down, on the path after supper:
Makeshift path, makeshift stupid
boring game, real plans dissolving
like a muddy string in the dirty rain.
The path and the children and the hidden moon.
If you ask us today, even now,
when we are too old to feel this way,
our voices will crack like river ice when we
talk about it: We were betrayed
by our little sister at supper. She told
our father about our plans, she said
we are not your children anymore
we are really pirates, have really always been
and we
are leaving at dusk
for the mouth of the river and you
will never not hold us in your arms again.
Monday, 16 May 2011
Sunday, 15 May 2011
The River of History, By Tom Kelly
For Centuries, the waters of Whitefish Bay
Have made their rocky twenty-one foot leap
Into the St. Marys River Valley
Its' pregnant waters at seasonal occasions fed
Countless, from native tribes to today's sport fishermen
In such abundance that it is impossible to tally
The voyageurs named it "Sault," the "Fall" of
The River, dedicated to the Savior's mother
The Saint Mary's River Valley is home to nearly
A hundred thousand of Yanks and Caucks, with
Finns and Poles, Italians and Greeks, among
Many others
The river is an umbilical cord between
Superior and Huron, as well as a waterpath
To the Ocean to the East
Through our travels, my wife, Maryann and I
Have tasted flounder and grouper, trout
And mackerel, but none can compare to a "Superior"
Whitefish feast
Returning from six weeks in Europe, our home-
ward flight took us above the river, Maryann's
Greatest anticipation was for a "Lake Superior
Highball"
We Upers were not all born by her waters,
But after forty years living on the river,
Deep in our hearts, we heed the magic
Of this historic river's call
Have made their rocky twenty-one foot leap
Into the St. Marys River Valley
Its' pregnant waters at seasonal occasions fed
Countless, from native tribes to today's sport fishermen
In such abundance that it is impossible to tally
The voyageurs named it "Sault," the "Fall" of
The River, dedicated to the Savior's mother
The Saint Mary's River Valley is home to nearly
A hundred thousand of Yanks and Caucks, with
Finns and Poles, Italians and Greeks, among
Many others
The river is an umbilical cord between
Superior and Huron, as well as a waterpath
To the Ocean to the East
Through our travels, my wife, Maryann and I
Have tasted flounder and grouper, trout
And mackerel, but none can compare to a "Superior"
Whitefish feast
Returning from six weeks in Europe, our home-
ward flight took us above the river, Maryann's
Greatest anticipation was for a "Lake Superior
Highball"
We Upers were not all born by her waters,
But after forty years living on the river,
Deep in our hearts, we heed the magic
Of this historic river's call
A letter and poem for the River by Al Demroske
...Thanks to you, as per our conversation the other day I have been bugged with one of those damned poetry moments, and here is the result, for better or worse. Is it worth considering?
I Fish from the Bank,
an old man of 80 plus years,
sitting on the bank of the St. Mary's River,
fishing and soaking up the warmth of the spring sun.
Along comes a university student,
also intent on fishing,
and a conversation begins,
"Of Mice and Men," or whatever.
The River smiles contently,
as it does what is has always done:
Connecting the generations.
I Fish from the Bank,
an old man of 80 plus years,
sitting on the bank of the St. Mary's River,
fishing and soaking up the warmth of the spring sun.
Along comes a university student,
also intent on fishing,
and a conversation begins,
"Of Mice and Men," or whatever.
The River smiles contently,
as it does what is has always done:
Connecting the generations.
River Spirit (A grandmother shares the river with her grandchildren)
Grandkids, did I ever tell you about walks along the St. Mary’s river?
Well, when your daddy was a little boy we would stroll along the river every day. At the Locks he would run around the fountain, play peek-a-boo or run and hide. When we were hungry we had a picnic lunch on the grass. As we went strolling back and your daddy fell a sleep, Grams liked to watch the rolling water. Some days it was dark and mysterious; other days it was very blue and peaceful.
I was very sad when we had to move to a busy city. That’s where your Aunt Kim was born. We no longer had the river to stroll along, but one house after another. Grams missed the moving water. The river was nature in its glory. Sometimes I would close my eyes and think about the flowing river. It was an awe inspiring memory. After a couple of years living in the big city, we got a surprise. We were moving back to Sault Ste. Marie. How excited everyone was! Grams continued her beautiful strolls along the scenic river with your daddy and Aunt Kim. But all too soon, school came. So Grams had to stroll along the river by herself. Sometimes I would ride my bike and sometimes I would walk. Without being able to share my walks with someone the river looked lonely and cold.
As your daddy and Aunt Kim got older they no longer walked along the river. That’s when Grams got her first dog, Ubu, the Labrador retriever. Ubu loved walks along the river. I would throw a ball or her favorite king kong toy, and she would jump in to retrieve it. What fun we had! Do you remember when you would visit Gram’s house? All of us would take walks along the river. We took turns throwing the ball into the river for Ubu to retrieve. Then we would climb the rocky banks of the river doing a balancing act. When we got tired of doing that, we would skip stones into the river and listen for their splashing noises. Finally when we were totally exhausted and hungry Grams planned a picnic lunch along the riverbank. However we had to share a bit with Ubu and the seagulls. Later that day we took a walk to the canal. I still laugh even today remembering what you said, Clarissa, “Grams, the river is moving so rapidly as if being chased by a mongoose.” Well, Ubu and Grams did river walks watching it flowing continuously for 10 years, and then one day, Ubu died. Indeed, it was a sad day.
I didn’t think I would get another dog, but what happened! Grams got Ruba, the alpha male, Labrador retriever. Life continued with daily walks along the river. Ruba never cared about retrieving but loves to swim in the water and chase the geese. He’s a funny big guy and loves all the attention he receives from people we pass by, especially children. Walking down by the river which is moving so rapidly, Grams sees baby ducks and geese with their mothers. I also see eagles and ospreys around the Sugar Island Ferry and occasionally an otter peacefully swimming. I watch the trees when they start to bud and then see their rich green leaves. In the fall months the trees are arrayed with color. The leaves are crimson red, bronzy brown and golden sunlight. When they fall into the river they look as if someone just painted them and are still wet. In the winter Grams and Ruba go to the head of the river called Ashmun Bay. The city plows the road so we can still walk by the river. The river looks different in winter. Frozen ripples, birds flew to the south, icicle branches, wind blowing snow across the bay, what a beautiful winter wonderland. Grams has been walking along the river for 21 years, with her dogs.
“Grams, what will you do when Ruba dies, get another dog?”
Clarissa, I don’t know if I’ll get another dog. But what I do know is when I die, I’ll be a raindrop that falls into this river of life. So anytime you want to talk to Grams you can walk along the river and I’ll be there, the River Spirit.
Well, when your daddy was a little boy we would stroll along the river every day. At the Locks he would run around the fountain, play peek-a-boo or run and hide. When we were hungry we had a picnic lunch on the grass. As we went strolling back and your daddy fell a sleep, Grams liked to watch the rolling water. Some days it was dark and mysterious; other days it was very blue and peaceful.
I was very sad when we had to move to a busy city. That’s where your Aunt Kim was born. We no longer had the river to stroll along, but one house after another. Grams missed the moving water. The river was nature in its glory. Sometimes I would close my eyes and think about the flowing river. It was an awe inspiring memory. After a couple of years living in the big city, we got a surprise. We were moving back to Sault Ste. Marie. How excited everyone was! Grams continued her beautiful strolls along the scenic river with your daddy and Aunt Kim. But all too soon, school came. So Grams had to stroll along the river by herself. Sometimes I would ride my bike and sometimes I would walk. Without being able to share my walks with someone the river looked lonely and cold.
As your daddy and Aunt Kim got older they no longer walked along the river. That’s when Grams got her first dog, Ubu, the Labrador retriever. Ubu loved walks along the river. I would throw a ball or her favorite king kong toy, and she would jump in to retrieve it. What fun we had! Do you remember when you would visit Gram’s house? All of us would take walks along the river. We took turns throwing the ball into the river for Ubu to retrieve. Then we would climb the rocky banks of the river doing a balancing act. When we got tired of doing that, we would skip stones into the river and listen for their splashing noises. Finally when we were totally exhausted and hungry Grams planned a picnic lunch along the riverbank. However we had to share a bit with Ubu and the seagulls. Later that day we took a walk to the canal. I still laugh even today remembering what you said, Clarissa, “Grams, the river is moving so rapidly as if being chased by a mongoose.” Well, Ubu and Grams did river walks watching it flowing continuously for 10 years, and then one day, Ubu died. Indeed, it was a sad day.
I didn’t think I would get another dog, but what happened! Grams got Ruba, the alpha male, Labrador retriever. Life continued with daily walks along the river. Ruba never cared about retrieving but loves to swim in the water and chase the geese. He’s a funny big guy and loves all the attention he receives from people we pass by, especially children. Walking down by the river which is moving so rapidly, Grams sees baby ducks and geese with their mothers. I also see eagles and ospreys around the Sugar Island Ferry and occasionally an otter peacefully swimming. I watch the trees when they start to bud and then see their rich green leaves. In the fall months the trees are arrayed with color. The leaves are crimson red, bronzy brown and golden sunlight. When they fall into the river they look as if someone just painted them and are still wet. In the winter Grams and Ruba go to the head of the river called Ashmun Bay. The city plows the road so we can still walk by the river. The river looks different in winter. Frozen ripples, birds flew to the south, icicle branches, wind blowing snow across the bay, what a beautiful winter wonderland. Grams has been walking along the river for 21 years, with her dogs.
“Grams, what will you do when Ruba dies, get another dog?”
Clarissa, I don’t know if I’ll get another dog. But what I do know is when I die, I’ll be a raindrop that falls into this river of life. So anytime you want to talk to Grams you can walk along the river and I’ll be there, the River Spirit.
A River For All Seasons By Jeanne Mannesto
Pondering this river led to remembrance of enjoyable recreational activities in every season. Kayaking the St. Marys River on a sunny warm day in early autumn going downstream on three mile run in the red river kayak with you in the green one way over there on the American side of the river was a pure adrenalin rush. I caught the current by the Canadian shoreline in the shallows where the white caps proved a challenge to keep going in the right direction. Then reaching relatively calm water in the narrows slowed the paddling down considerably. I sat back and let the river take the boat passing by the loon who lives here. The cool water on my bare toes felt good while pulling the river kayak on shore to relax in the sunny spot on the dock before loading it up in the truck at the small park across from the white church.
The wait with anticipation for the perfect calm bright day of crystalline pastel blue water to motor around Sugar Island in summer always proved fruitful. We loaded the Chris Craft with subs and beverages for a picnic lunch at the park on St. Josephs Island, donned wide brimmed Tilley hats and sunscreen, and settled in for an enjoyable trip. We traveled south going through Lake St. George. After the picnic, it was fun to go down through the channels at St. Josephs Island to see the interesting homes and huge boulders where the local youth jumped into the frigid water. Then we navigated around the tip of the island heading for Aune-Osborn boat launch waving to the other boaters cruising by or those anchored for fishing. We made way for the thousand footer freighters heavy with loads and low in the water. The majestic osprey sat on their nests atop channel markers. The summer scenery of nature, water and fresh air filled us with delight. Pulling back into the dock to tie up and cover the craft always left a bit of nostalgia that another good day was drawing to a close.
In wintertime when the river runs frigid and ice shards form on the shallows which tinkle in the breeze like a glass bell concert, I donned my cross country skis leaving the cottage at sunset to watch the Canadian shield turn pink then a deeper maroon. I slid across the frozen snow and ice encrusted beach going south to the point. Sometimes the otter came out from the caisson to slide silently by looking back at me. One time the woods were lightly coated with snow. It looked like the cook from heaven’s kitchen sifted powdered sugar over the entire area. It clung upon every twig and bough this side of the river. All the evergreens on the Canadian side looked regal. The river ran a peaceful silent steel blue that day with an occasional jay cry in the distance.
In spring the recreational fun was fishing in the rapids by the International Bridge. We crossed the bridge to get to Whitefish Island, hiked to the shoreline to get into the rapids and pulled on waist high waders. We used walking sticks to stay upright on the slick rocky uneven slippery floor of the freezing river sometimes holding hands. The strong current sucked the air out of the waders which get tight to the body. Once at the concrete abutment, we sat in the warmth of the sunshine, got the gear out and hoped for a bite. Other fishermen caught and released steelhead trout. I went home with an empty basket.
Writing the St. Marys River is a good way to re-create these joyful times in all seasons.
The wait with anticipation for the perfect calm bright day of crystalline pastel blue water to motor around Sugar Island in summer always proved fruitful. We loaded the Chris Craft with subs and beverages for a picnic lunch at the park on St. Josephs Island, donned wide brimmed Tilley hats and sunscreen, and settled in for an enjoyable trip. We traveled south going through Lake St. George. After the picnic, it was fun to go down through the channels at St. Josephs Island to see the interesting homes and huge boulders where the local youth jumped into the frigid water. Then we navigated around the tip of the island heading for Aune-Osborn boat launch waving to the other boaters cruising by or those anchored for fishing. We made way for the thousand footer freighters heavy with loads and low in the water. The majestic osprey sat on their nests atop channel markers. The summer scenery of nature, water and fresh air filled us with delight. Pulling back into the dock to tie up and cover the craft always left a bit of nostalgia that another good day was drawing to a close.
In wintertime when the river runs frigid and ice shards form on the shallows which tinkle in the breeze like a glass bell concert, I donned my cross country skis leaving the cottage at sunset to watch the Canadian shield turn pink then a deeper maroon. I slid across the frozen snow and ice encrusted beach going south to the point. Sometimes the otter came out from the caisson to slide silently by looking back at me. One time the woods were lightly coated with snow. It looked like the cook from heaven’s kitchen sifted powdered sugar over the entire area. It clung upon every twig and bough this side of the river. All the evergreens on the Canadian side looked regal. The river ran a peaceful silent steel blue that day with an occasional jay cry in the distance.
In spring the recreational fun was fishing in the rapids by the International Bridge. We crossed the bridge to get to Whitefish Island, hiked to the shoreline to get into the rapids and pulled on waist high waders. We used walking sticks to stay upright on the slick rocky uneven slippery floor of the freezing river sometimes holding hands. The strong current sucked the air out of the waders which get tight to the body. Once at the concrete abutment, we sat in the warmth of the sunshine, got the gear out and hoped for a bite. Other fishermen caught and released steelhead trout. I went home with an empty basket.
Writing the St. Marys River is a good way to re-create these joyful times in all seasons.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Border scofflaws
By Rick Smith
Many years ago when I was a lad living on the northern shore of Sugar Island, some of my friends and relatives would often accompany me when I crossed the river, and consequently the U.S./Canadian border, to see other friends and relatives in Garden River, Ont.
Of course, crossing the border without benefit of going through governmental checkpoints was highly illegal, but no one seemed to mind and we weren’t doing any harm, so we didn’t think much of crossing the border as we pleased. Still, we kept an eye out for any form of law enforcement that might spot us as crossed in rowboats.
One evening, as the sun was setting, a cousin and I were returning to Sugar Island from Garden River and had just reached shore when a bright yellow airplane on pontoons set down in the middle of the river just east of us. With the aid of a bullhorn, the men in the airplane identified themselves as Canadian border agents and asked us to row back out to them. We knew this wasn’t good for us. We also knew we had a couple of thing in our favor — one, Canadian law enforcement doesn’t have any jurisdiction in U.S. territory; and, two, the current travels east along the northern shore of the island at about seven miles per hour, leaving the airplane in a tricky situation.
We politely declined their invitation and, as we walked inland from the dock, we heard the airplane’s engine accelerate and we turned our heads around just in time to watch it take itself back into the air.
It was a long time before we crossed over into Garden River again, just as a precaution.
Many years ago when I was a lad living on the northern shore of Sugar Island, some of my friends and relatives would often accompany me when I crossed the river, and consequently the U.S./Canadian border, to see other friends and relatives in Garden River, Ont.
Of course, crossing the border without benefit of going through governmental checkpoints was highly illegal, but no one seemed to mind and we weren’t doing any harm, so we didn’t think much of crossing the border as we pleased. Still, we kept an eye out for any form of law enforcement that might spot us as crossed in rowboats.
One evening, as the sun was setting, a cousin and I were returning to Sugar Island from Garden River and had just reached shore when a bright yellow airplane on pontoons set down in the middle of the river just east of us. With the aid of a bullhorn, the men in the airplane identified themselves as Canadian border agents and asked us to row back out to them. We knew this wasn’t good for us. We also knew we had a couple of thing in our favor — one, Canadian law enforcement doesn’t have any jurisdiction in U.S. territory; and, two, the current travels east along the northern shore of the island at about seven miles per hour, leaving the airplane in a tricky situation.
We politely declined their invitation and, as we walked inland from the dock, we heard the airplane’s engine accelerate and we turned our heads around just in time to watch it take itself back into the air.
It was a long time before we crossed over into Garden River again, just as a precaution.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Reflections on the River
By Thaddeus Lewandowski
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”
- Heraclitus
Upon reflection, it seems the St. Marys River has played at least some role in most of the major events of my life over the past four years. It’s hard to say whether the water’s presence has driven the plot of each event, but in every case the St. Marys has offered a most attractive setting.
A friend of mine, after leaving the area of the upper Great Lakes, said his new home was “way too dry” and that he missed the River in particular. I was too obtuse to really understand what he was referencing; at that time I still had the River to enjoy on a daily basis. His words make sense only after having moved away myself.
On an opening day of duck season not too long ago, I was awoken at 2 am by a small group of friends including the one mentioned above by frantic knocking upon my door. They only agreed to leave when I promised to meet them down the street for an epic breakfast before heading out to get a prime spot along the river at dawn. I gathered my gear and met them for a meal that didn’t disappoint before heading off for what was to be my first duck hunting experience.
Half an hour later, it was still 3 hours before the season officially opened, and the icy ankle deep water I was standing in competed with the breezy 26 degree air temperature for which factor would cause me to dislike duck hunting more. Looking to the heavens in an attempt to solicit understanding about why people participate in such a sport, I saw the constellation Orion for the first time that season, along with a multitude of other stars. Their glimmer reflected off of the still surface of the St. Marys in a way that couldn’t be imitated by the red and green lights of the buoys floating in the water. What I had first thought to be absolutely miserable became a most powerful and resonant image.
About six months later, I received a phone call from a buddy who was graduating from college and couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with anxiety of starting a new chapter of his life. We decided to go for a drive but didn’t say much once in the car. I think we were both a little hypnotized by thoughts of change and were silent under the influence of introspection. Without really having a plan or destination, I turned in the direction of the River. It was snowy, and the roads were covered with ice, making the boundaries of the parking lot along the shore where we were to stop difficult to discern. My senses came back after a while and I admitted that I must have taken a wrong turn and that we should turn around. My buddy blinked once or twice, took a closer look out the window of the passenger seat and said, “Uh, yeah dude, you should turn around….WE ARE ON THE RIVER.” Thank goodness for the thick ice brought about by late springs.
Around the time of my own graduation, I had an interview for a graduate position that would take me to an international university. It was a big decision in my life, and after the interview I too had thoughts of an uncertain future, so I went for a walk at Bellevue Park to think. It was one of the first pleasant days that spring and shore birds seemed particularly zealous along the bank of the River as I sipped coffee and mulled my future. Their noises paired with gentle waves along the rocky shore provided a soundtrack for a decision that will undoubtedly affect the rest of my life.
Each story has a different cast of characters that give the memories a rich and vibrant tone, regardless of how mundane or emotionally charged the events were as they unfolded. However, the River cannot be separated from these memories and I am fortunate to have several more. As time passes, I feel very lucky to have experienced a personal “River of History” and it is hard to imagine what will come next without some input from the St. Marys.
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”
- Heraclitus
Upon reflection, it seems the St. Marys River has played at least some role in most of the major events of my life over the past four years. It’s hard to say whether the water’s presence has driven the plot of each event, but in every case the St. Marys has offered a most attractive setting.
A friend of mine, after leaving the area of the upper Great Lakes, said his new home was “way too dry” and that he missed the River in particular. I was too obtuse to really understand what he was referencing; at that time I still had the River to enjoy on a daily basis. His words make sense only after having moved away myself.
On an opening day of duck season not too long ago, I was awoken at 2 am by a small group of friends including the one mentioned above by frantic knocking upon my door. They only agreed to leave when I promised to meet them down the street for an epic breakfast before heading out to get a prime spot along the river at dawn. I gathered my gear and met them for a meal that didn’t disappoint before heading off for what was to be my first duck hunting experience.
Half an hour later, it was still 3 hours before the season officially opened, and the icy ankle deep water I was standing in competed with the breezy 26 degree air temperature for which factor would cause me to dislike duck hunting more. Looking to the heavens in an attempt to solicit understanding about why people participate in such a sport, I saw the constellation Orion for the first time that season, along with a multitude of other stars. Their glimmer reflected off of the still surface of the St. Marys in a way that couldn’t be imitated by the red and green lights of the buoys floating in the water. What I had first thought to be absolutely miserable became a most powerful and resonant image.
About six months later, I received a phone call from a buddy who was graduating from college and couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with anxiety of starting a new chapter of his life. We decided to go for a drive but didn’t say much once in the car. I think we were both a little hypnotized by thoughts of change and were silent under the influence of introspection. Without really having a plan or destination, I turned in the direction of the River. It was snowy, and the roads were covered with ice, making the boundaries of the parking lot along the shore where we were to stop difficult to discern. My senses came back after a while and I admitted that I must have taken a wrong turn and that we should turn around. My buddy blinked once or twice, took a closer look out the window of the passenger seat and said, “Uh, yeah dude, you should turn around….WE ARE ON THE RIVER.” Thank goodness for the thick ice brought about by late springs.
Around the time of my own graduation, I had an interview for a graduate position that would take me to an international university. It was a big decision in my life, and after the interview I too had thoughts of an uncertain future, so I went for a walk at Bellevue Park to think. It was one of the first pleasant days that spring and shore birds seemed particularly zealous along the bank of the River as I sipped coffee and mulled my future. Their noises paired with gentle waves along the rocky shore provided a soundtrack for a decision that will undoubtedly affect the rest of my life.
Each story has a different cast of characters that give the memories a rich and vibrant tone, regardless of how mundane or emotionally charged the events were as they unfolded. However, the River cannot be separated from these memories and I am fortunate to have several more. As time passes, I feel very lucky to have experienced a personal “River of History” and it is hard to imagine what will come next without some input from the St. Marys.
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