I'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.
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.
Friday, 21 October 2011
St. Marys River, by Mark Stephenson, LSSU Student
The 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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh irony, how you never cease to amaze.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh irony, how you never cease to amaze.
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.
St. Marys River, by Devin Provo, LSSU student
I 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.
Relaxing on the St. Marys, By Sean Majer, LSSU Student
As 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
First Catch First Fish, by Richard Wark
Fishing, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 15 August 2011
Water here, Water there, Water water Everywhere, by Helen (Gianakura) Reinkensmeyer Class of '46, Soo High Teacher of Latin at Soo High from 1950 - 1953
Water here,
Water there
Water, water
Everywhere
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Water there
Water, water
Everywhere
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
No Civilized Life, This, by Ken Miller
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.
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.
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.
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.
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