Strait Storm

During the early afternoon, high above northern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Wilderness Area, a clash of atmospheric proportions is about to take place. A dividing line between a hot and muggy air to the south and drier, cooler air to the north has developed. An updraft of that hot soupy air bursts through the layer of coolness giving birth to a thunderstorm. It’s not an unlikely event during the month of July around these parts by any means, but all is now set in place for that simple garden variety thunderstorm to evolve into a summertime monster known as a Derecho.

The term Derecho is Spanish for “straight” and over the next several hours the storm will proceed straight along that meteorological dividing line using it kind of like a mapping device, gaining size, speed, strength, moisture, wind, and producing lightning at increasingly prolific rates. On this day in early July, that atmospheric dividing line, invisible to the naked eye, heads off to the east and south a bit, right smack dab through the Straits of Mackinac.

Not long after its inception and its downdraft gusts have already leveled swaths of pines across the northernmost woodlands of Minnesota, the towering thunderhead splits into multiple cells of regenerating nastiness. The close-knit family of storms moves powerfully out over Lake Superior just south of Thunder Bay, Canada. It storms on, growing ever more potent, widespread and dangerous, whipping up ferocious and mountainous waves on the great sprawling open lake. 

Making landfall, now, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at Ontonagon and cutting across the Keweenaw Peninsula without delay, the congealing line of storms takes on the shape of a bow and has swollen to more than fifty miles across at its leading edge which has darkened to an inky blue and developed a menacing snowplow-like shelf cloud across its low-hanging front. Behind the shelf cloud the storm’s innards glow an otherworldly pale, almost-neon, green. The narrow peninsula stabbing up into Lake Superior was nothing more than a speed bump.

By late afternoon it skirts the southern reaches of Lake Superior once more and then blows ashore at Grand Marais. Wind driven rain and hail lash against the cliffs along the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. The leading edge of the storm now stretches from Whitefish Bay down over northern Lake Michigan just off of Naubinway. It’s regeneration and intensification continues.

At Cedar Haven cottage on Marquette Island which is along the northern shores of the Straits of Mackinac, the evening has an odd feel to it. For one thing, the sunset was more than an hour earlier than usual after another gloriously sunny mid-summer afternoon. And, actually, there really wasn’t a sunset. Instead of the usual glowing golden-orange-pink evening treat, things just suddenly seemed to darken over the sunset end of the bay. The evening retreat of gulls, herons and other water foul out to their Goose Island rookery for the night has taken place uncustomarily early. The birds seemed to have a hurry to their winging, unlike most evenings when they seem to lollygag along in the waning light.

Then there was the quiet anchoring of two seemingly unaffiliated sailboats near the protected area we like to call Kurtz’s Cove over on the eastern end of Long Island. Their sailors appear to have settled in for the evening. One overnight mooring of a sailboat in that quiet and peaceful cove is not unusual, but two makes one wonder what the captains and their crews know that we don’t.

The usual fresh and crisp Wilderness Bay is hazy and the air heavy. Looking out beyond the end of the bay, one can see a mountain range of clouds that wasn’t there earlier in the day. With the sun now behind it, the new mountain range appears dark and foreboding and may even be slowly growing before our very eyes.

More to the norm, beach toys, rafts and swim floats lay strewn along the sandy beach, attesting to the fun that was had during the warmth of the afternoon. Boats float in silence at their respective dock posts. Clouds of gnats hover motionless above the tamaracks. A traditional wiener roast picnic has all but wrapped up with brownies and ice cream serving as a delicious final touch. Most of the post-dessert chatting is now taking place inside the bug-less comfortable confines of Cedar Haven. Two fishermen from The Pines cottage next door made a bee-line in the boat for Long Island right after dessert to do some trolling for northern pike in hopes of landing a big one on the last night before they head back to Ohio.

Without fanfare or even notice, darkness settles in across the bay. The air is still and the water glassy smooth, mirroring the swelling embankment of ever-darkening clouds across the entire width of the far end of the bay. A star or two begin to wink on the still water by the dock. The reeds behind the sandbars stand perfectly at rest except for the occasional bump by a clumsy carp. Across the bay, far inland, a hazy diffuse faintly pink flash of heat lightning is the first real inkling that a storm is in the offing. Over the next several minutes, those flashes begin to turn eerily pale hues of hazy pink, yellow and sometimes almost orange as they speckle the horizon from Cube Point south down beyond Autumn Bay and behind the length of Long Island, apparently out of view of the fishermen. There is no thunder yet. All is quiet. The curious heat lightning has caught the attention of the few who’ve remained at the shore and braved the bugs. It’s decided the peculiar conditions should be checked into.

The post wiener roast lull is broken. Cottage doors begin opening and closing as flashlights maneuver through the woodsy paths between. Reports coming in on the weather radio have raised alert to the coming maelstrom. In the gathering darkness, it becomes obvious that even binoculars will not help in spotting the fishermen at Long Island. Besides taking a boat out, there is no way to contact or warn them. Their last-minute fishing trip must be paying off, but surely they’ve noticed the odd and now dangerous sounding weather setting in. 

The mast lights of the two moored sailboats at Kurtz’s Cove can be seen glowing steadily, but there is no sign of the fisherman just down from them. It’s not unusual for pleasure boaters and their crews to take refuge among the innumerable quiet coves and protected shorelines throughout the chain of islands during dangerous weather. And in all actuality, another look towards Kurtz’s Cove reveals that there are now three mast lights glowing. Another has sought safe harbor from the impending weather. The fact that they are all three moored in the eastern lee of Long Island makes it seem obvious that whatever they are bracing for is coming from the west, straight across our bay from Cedar Haven, with nothing to hinder or slow its arrival.

With a sense of urgency, the remaining boats are covered and buttoned up if they have covers. Dock lines are checked, tightened and secured. Anchors are deployed for extra stabilization. Some smaller boats are pulled up on the beach out of the water altogether. Beach toys are collected to what is believed to be a safe spot on the sand. The lightning across the bay becomes whiter and more frequent and more vivid. Along the quiet sandbars of the eastern shore of Wilderness Bay, the air still hangs motionless. The tamaracks and cedars that line the sandy beach stand complacently silent. Stars are becoming hazed over by the high-altitude thin anvil cloud blowing off ahead of the storm. A barely audible low rumble rolls around the rim of the bay. In an odd way, it seems more felt than heard.

During the lightshow across the bay, a horizontal band of the palest pastel purple imaginable forms below the black boiling gust front. This band becomes larger and larger as the leading edge of the looming and ever advancing storm now begins to scour over the waters of our very bay. Continual hot-white, jagged, prodding bolts of lightning now pound the mainland and even seem to be jabbing at the water’s surface at the other side of the bay. The blinding flashes are relentless. The ensuing thunder has morphed into a constant distant rumble punctuated regularly by louder percussions that already are slightly rattling the large single pane cottage dining room window that looks out over the bay. All souls except for the fishermen who remain unaccounted for are now inside one cottage or another.

The storm advances. Every thick white bolt of lightning is now accompanied by an almost instantaneous bombardment of ear-splitting thunder. Their sound waves blast down the bay across the smooth water unimpeded until they forcefully connect with the cedars and pines and the cottages themselves, causing them to shake and rumble mercilessly. The thin walls and lack of winter insulation do little to filter the pounding sound. In the strobe-light lightning, a blurry ragged line is seen creeping toward our shore on the surface of the water. Behind the line, everything above the water appears fuzzy and demented, the water’s surface is dark, gray and extremely agitated. The blockhouse at the farthest tip of Long Island from the cottage is no longer visible through the wall of wind and rain. With each flash, the line gets menacingly closer.

Through the veil a dim bouncing light becomes visible. It’s a boat. A small outboard like the one the fishermen took to Long Island, and its coming in as fast as its little engine can manage. In the safety of Cedar Haven, pressed against the large window, onlookers munch on a second round of brownies as if it where popcorn and they were at the movies. The tiny boat breaks though the curtain of rain and using binoculars it becomes obvious that it is the two fishermen from The Pines. The captain is twisting the throttle so hard its handle is about to twist right off. Both are hunkered down with only their tightly hooded heads barely visible above the bow. Both are intensely fixated on the shore ahead as bolts of lightning chase them homeward. It appears they’re afraid to look behind them. As well they should be as the storm stalks them across the water. They sail across the calm water now past the old rock pile by the drop off and beach the little boat. Without missing a step, and with the speed and agility of a whitetail deer, they both are out of the boat and up into The Pines to safety. If a big one was caught, it has been left behind in the boat to fend for itself. They were still wearing their life jackets all the way into the cottage.

The glassy surface between the beach and the curtain-like line shrinks and shrinks until the line crosses the drop-off. Then in no-time flat the cottage is slammed with powerful thunderstorm wind gusts that cause it to groan and shift ever so slightly on the solid foundation posts below its pine flooring. Cold dead remnant ashes puff out of the fireplace and softly settle nearby on the rug with the finest particles left hanging in the air. In the flashes, pines and cedars bend and whip incessantly. Out on the bay, perfectly straight rollers with vibrant-white foamy wind-whipped crests roll into the shallows and slosh over the sandbars and even the beach. Beach toys fly until snared into safety by low pine shrubs. Swimming rafts are airborne and wrap around the trunks of tamaracks by the beach like colorful bowties. Boats yank at their lines, bucking and rolling like bulls. A wave of solid rain suddenly causes the cottage window view to blur to complete obscurity. The deluge of rainwater pastes birch leaves and cedar boughs to the bowing and quivering glass. The bucking boats and beach disappear.

Dripping water announces itself on the front porch. Impatiently, it taps in an increasingly rapid pace on the aged linoleum flooring. Old chamber pots are deployed to catch the invading rain. Now instead of the tapping, a rapid and increasingly loud metal pinging sound fills the front porch and spills into the rest of the small cottage. The piercing pings contrast greatly with the steady roar of the hard rain on the roof above. The storm is doing it’s best to infiltrate our dry and relatively safe cocoon with its wind, rain and lightning. So far, all three have been held at bay, for the most part. There’s another blazing flash, this one seeming to emanate directly over the chimney accompanied by an immediate knee-buckling crash of thunder. Then, the lights go out.

Somewhere out over northern Lake Huron the demarcation line in the atmosphere that the storm had been following begins to break apart. Starting at about Bois Blanc Island, the air gradually became more mixed. The warm, moist air that fueled the engine of this storm system was no longer available out over the chilly northern reaches of the lake. Now all the water it had kept suspended with powerful updrafts within its towering column has nowhere to go but back down to earth, similar to a juggler suddenly allowing all its balls to fall to the ground. The once impressive storm’s life drains mercilessly down on Drummond Island and across the open Lake Huron toward the Canadian side of the lake.

It turns out it was a big Northern Pike that caused the fishermen’s frantic and just-in-the-nick-of-time arrival. They had stayed and fished up to the last second which is a very normal thing to do on one’s last night and that’s when the big one hit causing a fight with the fish that ate up many precious minutes. With lightning already flashing, they finally landed the fish, marveled at its size regrettably for only an instant, then immediately flopped it back overboard and high-tailed it back to the dock. It’s assumed the big Northern then found safety on the sandy bottom protected by a multitude of reeds as it watched the flashing and turmoil on the surface above.

Inside Cedar Haven cottage, the old chamber pots are pinging slower and candles are burning lower. Aged kerosene lanterns are brought out of retirement casting a yellowish tint on everything within its pine paneled walls. A monotonous tender rain fills the cottage attic with its soothing sound. Only faint flashes make it through the canopy of trees now and thunder rolls gently through the pines, birches and aspen from behind the cottage. An occasional heavier thump is all that is left of the larger claps of thunder that originate out over the open lake to the southeast.

Everyone is accounted for and safe. The tamaracks and cedars that line the sandy beach drip but stand at rest once again. The brownies are gone. There will be a lot of boat bailing to do before anyone can go fishing in the morning.

Sunday Morning

This morning would not be for fishing.  

Such a pity.  

It’s surely shaping up to be a great day for a troll past Brown’s boathouse or a couple of passes along Haven Island or maybe even to scoot over to Autumn Bay to cast or troll.  It truly looks to be a day for catching northern pike.  The morning sun is almost finished burning off the fog that shrouded the end of Cube Point.  Straight across the other end of the bay from there, the blockhouse at the end of Long Island is already fully visible.  The retreating fog is like a tarp being pulled back to reveal one of the Creator’s marvelous works of art.  

Yes, this really would be an Autumn Bay day.  One could just sense the long, bronze-sided fish lurking amongst the towering pike weeds down below.  Even the boat ride over, buzzing right past and then beyond the blockhouse would be grand.  The bay is full of ripples, sunshine and nothing else.  It surely is going to be a glorious day on Wilderness Bay. 

If only we could just get out on the water. 

Instead, I’m carrying a kitchen chair through the woods down a root-strewn path between the cottages.  Ahead are my two brothers laboring with benches that usually inhabit the front yard of Tannenheim, two cottages over.  This is definitely not my usual morning routine when not fishing.  I should be checking the minnow trap in the shallows of the reeds, looking under logs in the woods for bait worms and salamanders, or running along the muck bridges in the cedar swamp.  I should be busily wandering along the beach collecting cute, miniscule toads in the old oval galvanized metal bucket, not carrying a kitchen chair through the woods.  I’m barely big enough to carry this chair across the cottage floor, let alone navigating the twigs, twists, turns and roots of the path between cottages. 

No, none of that cool stuff will be done this morning.  I’ve been told that I gotta stay clean.  

It’s Sunday.  

We’re having church.   

After having just arrived midday yesterday, I’m anxious to get started enjoying my summer playground amongst the cedars and balsam firs.  We’re only here a week and there’s so much woods, sand and water to enjoy.  Now we gotta stop and have church?  

It’s got me in a bit of a funk, actually.  I mope up the path to the cottage with my kitchen chair, dragging it now behind me.  That gets me a, you should know better, look from mom when she sees me nearing the front door of Cedar Haven.  The dark, rich soil and some old, brown cedar needles clump up on the bottom of two of the chair legs.  I struggle to wipe them off and do my best in acting like they weren’t really there before bringing them into the cottage.

People are arriving by foot and by boat.  Some come from as far away as the other side of Cube Point, toward Hessel.  Others make the short jaunt from next door or down the path towards Smith’s point.  They are all responding to the call to worship, sounded by my grandpa, a Lutheran pastor.  As a matter of fact, we’re all Lutherans from what I can gather. At least I assume so.  We’ve got a supply of old Lutheran hymnals and an old Lutheran pastor.  We’re about to have a good ol’ traditional Lutheran church service right here inside Cedar Haven cottage on the island.  

As I enter the screen door, I immediately notice all the comfortable wicker furniture and other furnishings have been rearranged or removed altogether.  Now there are only rows of kitchen chairs and benches from the fireplace all the way back to the rear door of the cottage into the kitchen area.  The rows of mismatched chairs and benches face the fireplace.  Many vivid shades of summer green from the trees outside, illuminated by the morning sun, filter into the cottage through the windows on either side of the fireplace giving them the appearance of glowing green stained glass.  An artfully crafted cross created by my aunt hangs on the wall above the mantel.  Sure enough, it is beginning to look like a church.  

Appropriately, the little red cottage was nick-named by some as the “church cottage” according to my grandma.  It all seems very church-like, indeed, set up like this.  Well, except for the deer head mounted above the fireplace, the spot from where my grandpa will lead the service.  In another twist, it looks as though he will do the job seated in his favorite rocking chair.  And people say Lutherans are stuck in their old familiar ways.  After I think about it a little more, I realize those who have come the farthest by boat probably knew the previously set time to arrive.  There’s no way they could have heard the call to worship.  Like usual, grandpa had employed his make-shift church bell which was a succession of several hard whacks of a huge pipe wrench against the LP tanks on the side of the cottage, um, I mean church.

I’ve always thought my grandpa was neat.  I’ve seen him at “real” church services in “real” churches all decked out in his minister’s robe and stole, standing up there high in the pulpit, saying really important and meaningful things about God that seemed to really move people.  Now I marvel at him once more, but in a different way, as he rocks in his chair beneath the mounted deer head, pipe in hand, comfortably dressed in a plaid shirt instead of his minister’s robe, making a story from the bible come to life in a new and revealing way.  

He is truly an amazing man.  Why, just earlier this morning I was standing by him while he cleaned a bucket of perch we caught the night before at Coates Point, hands covered with fish guts, scales and blood.  He showed me how to scale and behead the fish and then how to slice this way and that way all along the belly and most importantly to make sure to steer clear of the “hoopen-gable”, as he called it, while scooping the entrails out with his thumb.  I think he enjoyed saying the word “hoopen-gable”, I know I do.  I can still recall the sound of his thumb nail as it ran down the length of the spine of the small but tasty fish, scraping out the innards.  It sounded a lot like a zipper slowly being zipped.  

Now he sits in front of us leading us in worship, a stark contrast to the scene earlier that morning.  What a guy!  Later in life, I would come to realize that he was blessed and talented for sure, but that the thing that moved people and helped him become a leader was his Faith, and his allowing God to use him for His glory.

I think it was probably at these simple cottage church services that I first began to realize as a youngster that God could be worshipped in places other than a “real” church.  With the exception of home, up until that point I had always experienced the act of worship, praying, singing hymns, Holy Communion and Christian fellowship in the sanctuaries or Sunday school rooms in our church back home or other “real” churches.  Since then, I’ve been blessed to praise and worship God in many places and settings, but no other place holds the lifelong memories as do those Cedar Haven church services.  And as I came to realize through those worship experiences, God can be found anywhere and everywhere.  Indeed, many hours spent outside amongst God’s handy work on and around Marquette Island over the years, have proven this out for me.  From peaceful star-filled night skies and the calmest glass of waters to towering spires of pines and the power of mountainous rolling waves I have been able to experience the Creator’s majesty.  As a youngster I came to realize with the help of those cottage church services that one doesn’t necessarily need the formality of minister’s robes, stoles, and pulpits.  Plaid shirts, rocking chairs, pine trees and the lake can make up your cathedral.

I’m in less of a funk now.  My spirit is lifted by this gathering of friends and many relatives and the songs I enjoy singing.  There is no organ or any other musical instrument to accompany our hymns.  The singing regularly starts off a bit hesitant and awkward, but by the time the song nears its final verses, you’d be hard pressed to find a better choir anywhere in the Upper Peninsula that morning.  As if on cue, a Veery perched somewhere in the cedars just outside near the open front porch windows serenades the congregation with its downward twirling soulful solitary song adding its own unique praise to its Creator.  It’s clear and strong song punctuates the end of our hymn.  Everyone becomes quiet as heads turn toward the windows.  We all heard it.  We all deeply appreciated it.  After a moment of peace, faces turn back.  Most are smiling.  Grandpa breaks the silence with a hearty and agreeable “amen!”

I was actually beginning to enjoy this meaningful gathering of friends and family in the presence of God.  I have to admit, though, that I became side-tracked during one of the Bible readings.  I began to recall the stories I had heard of church services Up North in the days before I was around.  Grandpa would lead those as well, but they also included Sunday School for the kids sometimes.  My mom had been known to get in a boat and lead the lesson while the kids remained on the dock.  What an excellent way to relate the story of Jesus teaching from the boat while followers and the otherwise curious crowded the beach along the Sea of Galilee.  On occasion the kids even got to get into the boat.

Similarly, there was quite frequently a large crowd that would turnout for church services on the island, rivaling that of the nearest Lutheran church on the mainland in Cedarville.  I began to also recall stories of church services being held outdoors in front of Tannenheim in the early days.  Immediately after the breakfast dishes were done and the pot roast or chicken were in the oven, the children were sent to the end of the dock to clang horseshoes together as church bells to summon the various cottages surrounding the bay.  Those arriving, usually by boat or path, gathered for worship utilizing a wide assortment of benches and chairs arranged in the vicinity of the old basketball court out by the beach.  Sometimes folks actually sat in hammocks and usually managed to keep from falling out of them during the service.  Even before that, I’m told, there where church services lead by Reverend Krause on the front porch of his log cabin cottage back in the 1940’s.  Prior to that, Pastor Abicht, the first of many Lutheran pastors that have come to vacation on Wilderness Bay, was known to have held worship services.  Once Cedar Haven, the church cottage, was built in 1961, the services were held there indoors and thankfully away from the mosquitoes and flies.  I’m told Clarence and Gertrude Becklein, my great aunt and uncle, typically arrived late entering through the back door, winding up sitting near the kitchen appliances.

This current cottage church service comes back into focus quickly as I catch the tail end of grandpa relating something funny that happened at last evening’s pinochle game to the morning’s sermon.  The congregation responds in laughter. There always seemed to be a lot of laughter at those church services and especially during the gatherings and fellowship that ensued afterwards.

As we continue to sing, pray, and listen to readings from the Bible, I occasionally strain my neck to glance out the front window.  Even though I think this church service in the cottage is cool and unique, I become more and more fidgety.  I feel more distracted than usual while at church.  Little boys can only sit still so long and the church at home doesn’t have all this waiting just outside its doors.  That makes things all the harder.  The mounted deer head staring down directly at me while I’m trying to remember and recite the words of the Lord’s Prayer isn’t helping much either. 

The sun is higher each time I look outside, warming things up nicely.  The bay is still full of ripples. The drop off becomes more and more vivid.  Did I just see a fish jump a ways out?  My favorite swimming raft sits out by the dock on the beach, calling to me.  

It is, and still will be, a glorious day on Wilderness Bay.  Church is almost over.  One more hymn and I’m out of here.  

Thanks be to God!

Bootleggers Island

Bootleggers Island

 

This is just a hastily penned post for my fellow Up North friends…

 

I did some research on Haven Island and the mafia a few days ago and found these snippets. I’ve gone back to try to find the sources but can’t locate them and don’t have the time so the following summaries will have to suffice.

 

Word was that Haven Island was also known as “bootleggers island” back during prohibition. I’m not sure if it was owned by any certain organized crime outfit or just by someone associated with the mafia or if it was used only sparingly when needed by booze running squatters. It was common for Canadian whisky to be run from Canada at the Soo or St. Joseph’s Island along the Les Cheneaux Islands to Mackinac Island. At Mackinac it would be transferred from the runner to a larger boat to be taken downstate, mostly to Detroit but some to Chicago. Detroit was a hotbed of booze running which was mostly done by the Purple Gang, known to be more notorious and vicious than most others. Capone and company would get the Chicago cut. Supposedly the folks in Hessel were not happy with the use of Haven Island in this way. Gene Mertaugh, the founder of Mertaughs, supposedly gathered a few men and some rifles and ran the bootleggers off. I find that hard to believe given the nasty nature of those Purple Gang dudes, but that’s what it said.

 

A young gentleman named Edward “Ned” Fenlon (assumedly the son of our very own Edward P. Fenlon, from whom Dr. Pfeiffer bought our beloved island properties) regularly provided transportation to wealthy folks to and from Hessel, Mackinac Island and Les Cheneaux to make extra money to help pay for his time as a student at Notre Dame. During prohibition it is said he was known to supplement his income by also partaking in the “international trade” as it was called, running booze to Mackinac Island. He went on to become a lawyer and a Michigan State Representative and some other nice things.

 

Speaking of Mertaughs, I guess those speedy new sleek Chris Crafts they had just started selling were well suited for booze running. I wonder if that helped get their business established. Supposedly booze runners would paint them black and run them at night. (I get the black paint to make spotting at night difficult, but, come on, you can hear them roaring a mile away??)

 

Finally, while it doesn’t involve Les Cheneaux, the story of the Arbutus, an old tug boat, is amusing. The crew and boat set off from Canada for a Lake Superior crossing holding about 70 cases of Canadian scotch and rye destined for Houghton. Along the way they got into sampling their contraband, the effects of which were them ending up in the wrong port (Copper Harbor) … where the Law was waiting for them.

August Kayaking – Les Cheneaux Islands

Just a few shots from our  super sunset kayak last August. From rocky shorelines, through intimate channels, reedy bays and even a nibble at the big lake. Finished with a blazing Musky Bay sunset. Thank you Woods & Waters and to our fabulous guide Stephanie!

The Shiny Effect

Here’s to July 5th…

There is a cherished aged photo, black and white it is, the images in it wispy and a bit hazy, of my grandparents on their wedding day back on July 5, 1928. My grandpa, Dr. Harold Leland Yochum, was known to joke that he “got his independence on the fourth and lost it on the fifth.” He always did have a good sense of humor. I can just imagine him saying that with a mischievous gleam in his eye. I can also imagine my grandma being thoroughly unimpressed, but still smiling.

 

For some folks I imagine the day after Independence Day might be a little bit of a let-down. All the fireworks are spent, picnics are over, some even have to go back to work and hopefully all of one’s fingers remain intact. It’s a one-day fling compared to some other national holidays. The vast majority of our Halloween candy hoard remains yet on November 1^st. Christmas presents are still new with New Year’s Eve near on the horizon on December 26th. Seemingly unlimited quantities of leftover turkey and gravy stare us in the face the day after Thanksgiving. And there’s likely a slice of pumpkin pie or two left to cover with fresh whipped cream. July 5^th, however, well, it’s kind of left on its own and unremarkable, to most folks. The old photo commemorates it as a special day to me, however.

 

In that old photo my grandparents appear to be seated at a lacy curtained window glowing with soft light. If I remember correctly, the newlyweds are facing toward the window but instead of looking out at a beckoning new horizon, they both look downward. Maybe they’re admiring the bouquet of wedding flowers in front of them, which look to be overflowing with bouncy Lily of the Valley. They might even be bowing their heads in prayer, their Christian faith being front and center in their lives. It’s possible they could also be directing their attention to the freshly placed wedding bands on their fingers.

 

On that July 5th one of those wedding bands was placed on the ring finger of my grandmother, Agatha “Emile” Auguste Amelia Pfeiffer Yochum. It’s not hard to imagine the brilliance of the shine of that brand spanking new wedding ring on that young finger. It was a simple yet elegant ring of white gold with an understated but fitting diamond as its centerpiece.

 

It’s safe to assume shortly after that summertime wedding, that ring and those newlyweds enjoyed their first stay as a wedded couple at Tannen-heim, her family’s summer cottage. Then, many summers thereafter, that ring would travel north to Cedar Haven, their own family cottage built in 1961 just down the path from Tannen-heim, where it would spend weeks at a time in and around the fresh lake-water and sand of the Les Cheneaux Islands. That ring adorned her finger until January 25, 1995, the day she passed away.

 

Then, 157 days later on the first day of July the wedding ring slid gently onto a new ring finger during a short summer afternoon ceremony on a sunny township park deck overlooking sandy dunes and the grand expanse of Lake Michigan. That ring is now worn by my wife, Maren. It’s an honor to us both to have that ring in our lives. The perfect symbol of eternity, the perfect symbol of love.

 

So, for most, the day after Independence Day may seem a little hum-drum. But for Maren and I it’s a day of remembrance and honor.

 

And it seems like whenever we’re at the cottage that wedding ring exhibits several extra levels of shine. Its brilliance causes it to almost come alive and it glows warmly and radiantly.

 

It follows, logically, that it’s the good polishing it receives from clear lake-water and beach sand while we’re at Cedar Haven, or maybe it’s simply the fresh pine air that causes the shiny effect.

 

I like to think there’s a bit more to it than that.

Without Notice

Right now I’m sitting on one of our black loungers on the dock enjoying lunch. A nice cottage-made deli sandwich of thin-sliced smoked chicken, leafy green lettuce and tomato-basil-Monterey jack cheese is paper-plated and sitting on the small yellow metal folding snack table next to me along with a handful of dark blue corn chips and a few pale green spears of cucumber from the garden back home. A bunch of the sweetest, darkest red cherries picked up at the roadside market just off the interstate on the way up will serve as dessert. The sign promised they had just been handpicked from a cherry orchard in the lower peninsula, or “down below” as Les Cheneaux locals might say.

The spitting of pits makes eating this fruit on the dock a hit with the “plip” sound they make after you forceably spew one from your tightly pursed lips. Ripe, fresh sweet cherries are indeed perfectly suitable for dessert on the dock.

Well, at least until after my afternoon swim.

That’s the plan at lunchtime anyway. Then I’ll partake in a few chocolate chip cookies and cold milk at the dinner table looking out across the bay, the customary post swim snack. After fifty-some summers of coming to the island, the afternoon swim routine has been firmly established.

Yesterday’s swim was legendary. It lasted many pruny hours, most of the afternoon in fact. Lots of floating, bobbing and torpedoing across the sandy bottom. Lots of splashing and amazement of how pristinely clear lake-water droplets gleam in the summer sun. The old submerged rock pile that used to anchor a dock was circled and searched thoroughly for crayfish and any overlooked relics. Plenty of crayfish are always found, but never a relic from the past besides old waterlogged pieces of dock post. A nap almost occurred while lolling in the raft followed by a lazy roll back into the bay. The drop-off was crossed many times. So warm was the water. It was the kind of afternoon swim you dream of in the depths of January.

I’m consumed by my consumption of my simple but tasty dock lunch, while all around below me the water is silently transforming. Totally beyond my perception the water that has been welcomely warmed over the last several days under the late July sun and has been pooled up against our shore by persistent but gentle southwesterly breezes is being transformed.

Actually, that which is transpiring below me and across the expanse of sandy shallows along the eastern shore of this northern Lake Huron bay may be better described as being a replacement. This replacement will make the water vastly unswimmable, eliciting responses to the touch that make it seem as though its practically toxic. Actually repulsive.

Our wonderfully warmed water is now … colder than a well digger’s backside, to put it nicely.

Earlier when stepping into the old aluminum StarCraft boat tied aside the dock to execute a quick bale, the boat bottom chill on the bare foot didn’t exactly go un-noticed, it just didn’t register to be all that important when it came time for the much-anticipated afternoon dip. Except for seeing the backs of ripples as the wind blows them away from my dock, taking the wonderfully warmed water with them, there is no visual hint that something is a foot.

Easterly breezes blow the upper layers of warmed water back out to be borrowed by the shoreline directly across the bay, maybe a mile or so across from our dock. This makes me wonder if the swimming along that side of the bay is less desirable given the fact that winds in these parts predominantly move from the west to the east, in general, which would cause colder water and considerably lessened swimability over there it would seem. Another reason of many to cherish our eastern shore location, I guess.

Back to the mechanics of warm water displacement (as if I’m an expert on the matter). Pushed by the easterly breeze, the vacating warm water leaves behind a vacuum of sorts of which the dead cold water that usually resides in the depths of the bay out past the drop-off takes full advantage. With the warmed water removed, it is forced up over the drop-off and creeps slowly and stealthily up toward our unsuspecting dock posts and sandy shoreline, taking its place. Water that just a few hours earlier was comfortable enough to be poured over the head from a minnow bucket without shock or shiver is now too coldly painful to step into off the ladder at the end of the dock. To be certain, after only two rungs, bringing water up to the knees, it is concluded to go no further and to grab the towel and head back toward shore – on the dock. Looks like a hike in the woods might be in order instead.

The unnoticed change in water a mere foot or so below my lunchtime spot makes me wonder about what other changes go unnoticed in, around and beyond our bay and summertime cottage among the islands of Les Cheneaux in the course of one summer season.

The reeds that line most all of the channels and sandy bay shorelines surely go through a seasonal modification. At ice-out, during the earliest of spring, nothing can be found green and growing along the shallows and shorelines. The island waters seem barren and lifeless but are oh so clear. Amazingly clear. By late spring, about the time new life is breathed into Cedar Haven cottage, wispy thin and weak reeds have sprouted from their undersand root systems and have meekly poked above the water’s surface.

Into the heart of the Les Cheneaux summer they have grown substantially enough and are strong enough to cause one’s treble-hooked pike lure to become firmly stuck after an over exuberant cast that reaches into the reed bed. If it’s hooked too close to the sandy bottom where the reed is it’s thickest and strongest it may result in a permanent loss of said lure. Usually, though, maneuvering the fishing boat directly over the reed that has hijacked your cast gives one the leverage needed to pull directly upward which enables the hooked lure to split its way up to freedom, an unfortunate outcome for the reed, but not for your already depleted tackle box inventory.

When the late summer rolls around and cottages are closing the reeds are thick, hearty and dark green, sporting dangling tassels at their tip-tops that are usually interwoven with the webs of spiders. I’ve never witnessed the winter time decimation of the reeds of Les Cheneaux but their multitude has to go somewhere each fall. I imagine after becoming ensconced in thick ice, the lifeless brown reeds are dragged down to the depths or shoved up on the shore in the wave-crafted shoreline piles we find each spring when it’s dock building time.

One other rite of the seasons in Les Cheneaux as sure as coming and going of migrant songbirds in spring and early summer and the traveling of the sunset across the bay northward and back again is the arrival of schools of herring that pass through the island bays and channels each summer. Usually around late June into July or whenever the mayfly larvae that emerge from the lake bottom near the shallows begin their hatch. I guess some kind of innate sensing ability tells herring when the mayflies are about to hatch and that miraculously brings them in from the open lake each summer. When they do it’s a mayfly feeding free-for-all. That makes for fun but tricky fishing action for those of us on the air breathing side of the water’s edge.

I learned the hard and frustrating way that herring have very tender mouths which won’t withstand the jerky yanks one might be successful with in catching fish the likes of a sturdy perch. I also recall herring being frenetic fighters when I caught them as a boy but we had to use a long limber fishing pole with a light fishing line. The extra-long old bamboo fishing poles now residing in the cottage attic were easy on their mouths, perfect for the job. For some reason I regularly got stuck with a certain bamboo shorty, which may very well have been the broken-off end of one of the big poles. The thick end that would be held was wrapped with duct tape. Why, it was to make a better handle I was told. After a while I surmised that it was really to keep the splintered bamboo from tender hands.

Schooling herring always brought a collection of boats to Wilderness Bay for a few days each summer and it was a sight to see those long thin bamboo poles periodically lifting the shimmering silvery foot-long or so fish high out of the water and gracefully into the boat.

With the last “plip” of the last cherry pit my mind turns to non-swimming activities due to the chilling turn of events in the water below my lunchtime spot. Time to head up into the attic to locate those bamboo poles. They might be fun to use on the rock bass that hang out under the dock in that freshly chilled water.

March Hoops VIP Driver

March Hoops VIP Driver

 

This weekend’s college hoops hoopla brings back memories of 2015 when it was hosted by Indy and I volunteered to be a courtesy car driver.

I arrived for my stint and spent most of the time at first sitting around waiting and eating the free food until I got my first assignment. Driving a basic little Buick, I was to pick up some VIPs at a concert practically across the street and bring them to the base hotel, where I was stationed. Well, if they were VIPs I surely couldn’t tell. Not sure who they were really. Made me wonder just what constitutes a VIP anyway and why they couldn’t have just walked?

My next assignment came right afterward. The supervisor simply asked, “you wanna drive Grant Hill around?”

Uh, yeah.

So, I climbed up into a mountain of a Yukon and headed to my pickup point. Traffic was thick and hardly moving, as could be expected for the Friday evening before the semifinals. Was this beast of a vehicle really necessary? Maneuvering Mount Rushmore through the river of cars and traffic lights was challenging, but being a delivery driver guy by day, I managed, only slightly ticking off a few folks.

I only had to go a few blocks but began wondering if I’d make it in time. That would be bad. I pulled up, parachuted out of the Yukon and walked as quickly as I could, without looking like I was a driver in trouble, into the hotel lobby. Kinda hard to do wearing a bright red official hat and shirt. There was Mr. Hill, waiting and checking his phone. Looking quite casual and very tall. The Yukon was a good idea after-all. I apologized and he assured me he had just gotten to the lobby and hadn’t been inconvenienced a bit. (I think he was being nice). I did the courteous passenger rear door opening thing for him and was immediately admonished (politely and in good humor I must add).

“Nah, man. I’m not big time. I’m riding up front with you.”

Ok, Mr. Hill, suit yourself.

“And it’s Grant, ok?”

Alright, that’s cool.

We were then off to the convention center where he was about to judge some kind of contest, around the corner and an easy few blocks away. Well, somehow, we need to get across four lanes of stopped cars so we can turn right at the next light. No problem. Down went his tinted window and the sea of cars parted as he hung out, greeting, waving and asking politely if we could cut in front. Lots of smiles, lots of startled faces and big eyes. Maybe even a fist bump or two. It was a nice surprise, a thrill I’m sure, for those folks and quite a relief for me as the route parted all the way to the next stop.

After about an hour he texted he was on his way out. As he hopped in, he asked if we could pick up a friend on the way to the next stop which was a swanky soirée at the Hilbert Circle Theater. Sure thing.

Up into the Yukon next was his broadcast partner Bill Raftery. How cool! I reveled in overhearing the banter between the two hoops legends as we slowly made our way around downtown Indy. They politely included me as well inquiring about the generalities of family, where I was from, what I like about Indy, etc. More questions followed. How will Butler do next year? What I thought of Brad Stevens leaving for the Celtics? Then, the real questions came. A) How does Maren like being a transplant nurse and, B) will she mind if I’m late picking her up from work due to driving them around?

Two genuinely nice guys chatting it up with joe driver. A) She loves it, and, B) I think she’ll understand.

And she did.

I began to think, all that was missing was the grand poohbah of all sports broadcasting, Jim Nantz, the final piece of the trifecta, the holy grail of college hoops hoopla broadcasters. Maybe we’ll pick him up next.

Well, that was not to be.

Along the way Grant did have to take a call, though, and since it regarded the other rider and the all-important subject of dinner plans, he put it on speaker. Grant advised the caller that besides himself, Bill was listening and in on the conversation along with the driver, Jon. Then, over the speaker came the words “Well … hello Jon” from THE voice of sports, Jim Nantz, himself.

A weak “hey” is all I got out as I almost rear-ended the car ahead. (the rear-ending part here is exaggerated, the weak “hey” part is not).

Finally arriving at St. Elmo’s my passengers departed into the throng, offering heartfelt thank-you’s for the ride and requests for me to say hello to Maren for them. Then, my Mount Rushmore pushed its way back to where my little Honda CRV was waiting.

Someone else would have to get them after dinner. I couldn’t wait to go pick up Maren, my VIP.

 

 

Just Sitting

There he is again. Just sitting there in what seems to be his favorite chair. The chair, positioned on the rear edge of the beach for as long as I can remember, stands as a sentry to the cottage named Tannen-heim which according to family lore loosely means “Christmas tree home” in German. It was likely made from surplus lumber and painted the same shade of green that adorns the century-old cottage amongst the pines up the narrow concrete path from the boat dock. It’s close to the same green that one would find on the upper side of a bough from a balsam fir. The chair is wider than it needs to be for one person but not quite wide enough for two. From the few times I have sat in it, short stays though they may have been, I have determined that although weathered, it is indeed very comfortable. He really seems to enjoy sitting in it, especially during sunny late afternoons when the sun is blazing off the water or later in the day as the summer sun is extinguished by the bay.

As my buddy and I play, bouncing from crude sandcastles to racing inflatable rafts in the sandy-bottomed shallows and continual failed attempts at netting rock bass under the boat aside the dock, he just sits there.

What in the world is he doing?

Like any other young boy, I have no concept of the desire to sit still for so long. There is one thing I know for sure. He is not sleeping. In the dark shadow of the bill of his old hat, I have caught glimpses of reflections of Lake Huron shimmers in his already lively and spark-filled eyes. He seems to be staring, fixated on something out ahead of him.

In front of him lays Wilderness Bay. One of the larger bays of the Les Cheneaux Islands, a cluster of islands that stretch across the northern shore of the Straits of Mackinac. Occasionally there is a crossing boat and there is always the mesmerizing flash and glare of the sun off the water on afternoons like this. The continual roll of the white caps vividly contrasting the deep pure aqua-blue of the water out past the drop-off can cause anyone to stop and take notice. There’s also the occasional glide-by of a hungry gull patrolling the shores or an osprey catching an updraft, maybe even a bald eagle. These would all normally only cause one to take notice momentarily. He’s there for hours, though, it seems.

At the time I assumed something visual was keeping his attention for that long. What did I know? I was young then.

Now older and with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if it was something more. If not the actual watching of something, maybe it was more like the contemplating of something. Or, maybe someone. Visual activity can come and go with the blink of an eye. Memories and imagination last a lifetime.

Maybe that was what he was doing. Perhaps he was thinking back on experiences, special people and places that might be held dear. Or, might he have been looking ahead in anticipation of an event or a reunion to come. I’ll certainly never know for sure. Thoughts and memories are priceless personal treasures that no one else can ever steal or even know. They can bring joy and satisfaction as well as longing and sadness. On the whole, he always seemed to be a genuinely happy person even while living a life that contained some very unhappy times. As I think back about seeing him in that chair, I hope most of them were memories or anticipations enjoyed.

He was a leader, a man of accomplishment from what I recall. Retired, he sat in his dark trousers and flannel shirt and a hat. It might have been an old golf hat; I only know for sure it had a bill. I recall he did enjoy the game quite a bit, so I’ll go with it being an old golf hat. The only skin visible was that of his weathered and tanned hands and his face, which was protected by the bill of that old hat. Occasionally the tanned hands would move from the thoughtful position at his chin to shoo away a pesky deer fly. Otherwise, those hands rested comfortably on the sturdy armrests of the chair usually cradling the bowl of a smoldering pipe.

I imagine his worn leather work shoes to be the same ones he wore as he moved about the Ohio quarry of which he had once been in charge. From what I can tell, his seemed to be a line of work that he enjoyed and at which he was successful. Evidenced simply by the beautiful stones he was able to garner and polish to perfection as a hobby it seems safe to say he loved his work.

Knowing his demeanor, I’m sure he was a fair and equitable leader of his company. Maybe he was sitting there looking back on a life of accomplishment, a career that enabled great satisfaction and personal achievement. A man such as this deserves all the time he wants sitting and reminiscing in that green, comfortable chair.

Back in the day, as they say, he and his good friend enjoyed their time on campus. He excelled in sports. His good friend honed his leadership abilities. They eventually both left quite a mark in their own way on Capital University. After college they married sisters they both met while on campus. It was partially because of and through those sisters that they first became acquainted. It was also through those sisters that they first experienced and then fell in love with Marquette Island and it’s unsullied environs. The sisters were daughters of the doctor who first ventured to this spot on the island and built Tannen-heim.

His good friend was a leader and was very successful in his line of work as well. After answering the call as a minister and eventually becoming a leader of the Church, he would go back to their alma mater and lead that same institution capably and honorably for many years as its president. He must have looked back with pride upon his good friend’s success and accomplishments. On vacations, they enjoyed as much time as they could together on the water surrounding or in the woods of the island. As they moved along through the years they looked ahead with great anticipation to the time where they could spend much more time together in old boats fishing for yellow perch or northern pike. His good friend would go on to build his own family cottage down the path and name it Cedar Haven. The plan would be that they would be able to watch their grandchildren grow up enjoying the clean, clear water of Lake Huron and the fresh, invigorating breezes together during the summers of their retirement.

His good friend was gone now, though. I’m certain he dearly missed his good friend and I wonder if some of the time he spent in that green beach chair was taken up with memories and recollections that would bring him back, if even only momentarily. I imagine these would be memories mingled with both longing and happiness. Their last moment together and the last heartfelt words shared between the good friends took place in a final goodbye in Hessel on the mainland. Many goodbyes occur in Hessel, but it’s likely they both sensed the finality of the one they shared that day. He now missed his good friend’s wit, his sense of humor and his genuine bond of friendship. He knew the Promise he had always based his Faith upon, though, and so maybe it was that he was looking with greater anticipation toward a time when they could fish in old boats together, forever.

Might I be so bold to offer the following as a possibility? Maybe he was pondering the love of his life. Certainly, this would encompass a great deal of time, perfect for just this setting. If so, these kinds of memories could surely bring an ache. Not long after marrying one of the sisters, it would come to be that she also would be taken from him. After enjoying a short marriage, she would fall gravely ill and would be unable to recover. Tragically, to exponentially compound the unbearable loss, the unborn child that would have been their second would also succumb due to that same illness that would take his lovely young bride only a few days later.

Such a whole-hearted loss that would be, I imagine. However, is it possible that he was replaying happy times spent with her on this very beach at his feet? Maybe glorious afternoons just like this one in the sun? Perhaps, even, he was recalling the joys and blessings in his life made possible by the daughter they had brought into the world prior to that dreadful double-edged sword of loss? These types of treasured thoughts and memories would surely bring a smile. That daughter continues to enjoy summertime visits to Tannen-heim to this day. Or, on the other hand, might the ache of such a loss be just too much to overcome. Maybe the monotonous roll of the waves was able to bring on a trance that soothed the ache and longing of the loved one who was no longer there.

Thankfully, though, the story of the love of his life doesn’t end here. Just as thinking about the love of his life could likely bring longing, in his case it could also just as well bring great joy, for he had been blessed to find new love. He had re-married to a wonderful woman who shared his love for the water and pines around Tannen-heim and with whom he had also been blessed to create a family. Maybe instead of the ache of loss, he was thankfully enjoying the gift of having been able to experience true love twice. A whole-hearted blessing that would be, I imagine. Could it be, for example, that he was recalling fine times such as a picnic on the boat while fishing with her on a lovely day in late May nice enough for shirt-sleeves? How much better can it get than to be able to be with your loved one, out on the water, fishing and eating sandwiches?

I’m sure as he sat in his chair they were both on his mind from time to time. Just as I’m sure that under the bill of that old hat those kinds of happy thoughts brought an even brighter gleam to the shadowed eyes that looked out over the water.

Everything changes. The green beach chair no longer stands as a silent and sturdy sentry to the green cottage up the narrow concrete path among the green pine trees. Year after year of the elements took their toll. It has been replaced by one of treated lumber that, although not green, is equally comfy.

Nobody knows for sure what memories he replayed as he sat there on those sunny afternoons or in front of those summer sunsets over the bay. I tend to believe it was more than just thinking about the pike that had gotten off the line earlier that morning or the wiener roast or pinochle game planned for later that evening. I’m thinking it was more like the memories and considerations of a lifetime full of meaning, fervent faith and purpose. A life that fostered mixed memories of satisfaction and of longing. A life lived long and well.

Now, looking back, I’m sure that he wasn’t in that chair … just sitting.

 

Checking the Birches

I had a lively, jolly, quick-witted uncle named Roger. He hailed from the other side of the family from the one associated with Cedar Haven. Aunt Jeannette (my dad’s sister) and Uncle Roger had a cottage down below just south of Hammond Bay on the western shore of Lake Huron near Roger’s City. Yes, when young I most certainly did assume that town in the lower peninsula was named after my uncle. Unquestionably it was. Um, not really, but I’m getting off track.

 

Oh, their sailboat was named the “Jolly Rog-ette” which I always thought was clever and he regularly referred to outboard motorboats as “stinkboats”.

 

Now I’m really off track.

 

Speaking of being off track (and things that stink), this might veer into the “too much information department” but occasionally, when Uncle Roger had to relieve himself, he’d announce to the world… “gotta go check the birches.” We all grew to know that meant he had to go to the bathroom and it really had nothing to do with that common north woods deciduous tree. There were birch trees all around their place on that sandy Huron shore, so, who really knows? Maybe the white papery bark resembled toilette paper in his mind, so it was a natural progression in his customarily witty thought process. Well, it is a vitally important aspect of the act of going to the bathroom.

 

You know, the jobs not finished until the paperwork is done.

 

No one will ever know the true origins of Uncle Roger’s peculiar saying. And, no matter how papery it looked, that birch bark would never be soft enough.

 

This novel and unusual concept of referring to a run-of-the-mill nature call as “checking the birches” leads me to think of our Cedar Haven outhouse.

 

Well, of course it does.

 

I’ve always assumed that among the cottage outhouses scattered along our shoreline of Wilderness Bay, our outhouse is, was and always will be the best. Why that would ever be the focus of someone’s concern is beyond me. But that’s what I thought. Ours is the best. That is until someone actually did a study to determine which one is the best, but I’ll get to that in due course.

 

Constructed of hardy tongue and groove cedar and painted a nice deep-woods complimenting dark red, matching the cottage, our outhouse is stationed an odor-safe distance up a lightly worn path. I assume it was a well-worn path prior to the bathroom being added shortly after the cottage was built. It’s hook and eyelet latching door is an old white, like its trim. Not old white as in nasty or dirty, but as in full of character or of vintage. A good old white.

 

As outhouses go, it’s pretty cool. The large cedar tree tightly strangling its roots around a poor boulder just aside to its left and its old mossy curled shingled roof gives its location setting hints of being a scene in a fairy tale novel. It sits sturdily but kind of leans backward a bit but not so much as to make you feel like you’re in a Barcalounger recliner while taking care of business.

 

Hmmm, there’s a thought.

 

The study I referred to earlier was a byproduct of a somewhat unfortunate event. A few summers ago, the new arrivals for a week at Tannenheim, the second cottage down the path from Cedar Haven, were met with a severe thunderstorm early on during their stay that knocked electricity out for four days.

 

No power. No bathroom. No outhouse. Four days.

 

The Tannenheim outhouse has been disassembled for a while now. It was classified as a hand crafted two-holer, like Cedar Haven’s, but it boasted an adult and a child sized hole. How thoughtful. (Side note. The adult sized hole section traveled through Canada and across several state lines and is now in the John Neiman cabin outhouse in Vermont.) The former Tannenheim outhouse was painted the same green as it’s cottage mate and even had a nice side window to look out while attending to one’s business.

 

The craftsman who created these comfy, functional works of art was Emil Toll, master carpenter. He built his cottage, around the bend from ours, in 1918. Mr. Toll was known for helping his island neighbors with wood working projects. It was he who fashioned Cedar Haven’s two-holer seat which is still in regular use, although preferably just one at a time.

 

My mom’s cousin Dick Metz, quite a talented wood worker in his own rite, as a kid would always get excited to see Mr. Toll go by on the path carrying his tool box. He would be sure to follow along because he knew some awesome woodworking was about to ensue.

 

Back to the study. In view of the temporary lack of Tannenheim commode facilities due to the storm, it was decided it was a perfect time to see which cottage neighbor on our end of Wilderness Bay had the best outhouse.

 

So, I guess that burning thought had crossed the minds of others after all.

 

In end, it was determined the best outhouse on this end of the bay was at Koeppe’s, two cottages down the other way. Our very own Cedar Haven outhouse was judged to be nice and well-kept, but the view was the clincher for the Koeppe outhouse, relegating ours to second place.

 

You used to be able to see the bay through the trees from our outdoor throne but now it just looks upon a cedar bog. It’s a serene contemplative view for sure, but the trees have filled in along the shoreline considerably. Some of them of the birch variety, actually.

 

Quite appropriate I suppose.

 

Looking Back: A Few Labor Day Weekends Ago…

Need I say S’more?

Excursion to Long Island. Coat’s Point and Lake Huron behind.

Brother Tom working the reeds for pike.

Just thinking back to a past Labor Day Weekend when Madde and I headed up north for a quick late summer Island get away.

Hard to believe Cedar Haven will soon be buttoned up for the season already.

Can’t wait till next summer!