by Dave Goss
11-15-07

Dear friends,

As I write this letter, my sons and I are preparing to head up north for four days of deer hunting in the great Michigan outdoors. If the past is any indication; the cost of the hunt will far outweigh whatever we bring home in the way of venison. But the cost is always worth it. The anticipation of the hunt is always great. Just to spend some time with my two sons, who I am very proud of, is worth the high cost of the hunt.

We will be camping on the Manistee backwaters. We do take the hunt seriously, but if we return without Bambi, it will all be worth it.

One of our favorite evening stops is the Bucksnort Saloon in Mesick. The food is quite good, and the atmosphere is one of celebration.

A Rainy-Day Walk Through Vet's Park

Perfect, sunny days are grand days for hikes along the trail. But, every day, regardless of the weather situation, a day outdoors can be enjoyed. It is always good not to have any expectations for time spent on the trail ; you can simply enjoy the experience. I find myself seeing new things every day when I am out and about.

Before there was a trail system in and around Bay City. Betty and I would hike around town during the winter from our home on Ninth Street. Even in sub-zero weather, we would bundle up and walk two to four miles. We would stop at one of the coffee shops on Saginaw Street, to warm ourselves over a hot cup of coffee or cappuccino. There is something special about walking in the driving snow that makes you feel alive. We have decided to get back into the habit of going for long winter walks.

On a rainy day last month, I took a leisurely walk through Vet's Park. It was a gray day. One of those days that seems to color everything gray. I was in a somber mood at the time. I don't mean to say that I was down or anything like that. There are days when a little solitude seems a great luxury. Time to just think, without interruption. Betty was off to a church function. So, Brutus and I took a long, slow walk in the light, intermittent drizzle. Brutus is a Pomeranian, and a good companion.

Brutus

There was color on the maple trees and the planted flowers were showing off their autumn colors. But, it was a gray day; so they didn't wow you with the radiance that they would have on a sunny afternoon. I was in a mild melancholy for no apparent reason. It was a comfortable indulgence on a gray, cool day.

I wore a windbreaker that held off some of the wet of the day. Brutus and I walked past the softball diamonds to the old slip that was once part of the former Davidson Shipyards back in the 1800s. There were ducks and geese; both wild and domestic, all around the finger of water that pointed towards the Civic Center. The birds on land were muddy and listless, reflecting the mood of the day. When I was a boy of around ten years of age, I swam with a friend in this slip, from the ruined hull of the Sacramento.

One of the mooring rings rings where the Sacramento was burned to the waterline.

I remember the day vividly. It was a dangerous place to swim with all of the underwater wreckage and the thick, green algae that stuck to everything like slippery hair. We never returned to that particular spot again to swim.

The Vet's Park area looked much different then. There were piles of broken concrete in the area where the harbor now sits. There was a large amount of trash in the cattails along the western bank, and many pilings from the lumbering era poking their heads up in the shallows. Bay City has come a long way from those days when the air and the water was not given much regard. In those days, Midland could be detected by smell, all the way to Bay City, when the wind blew out of the west. Midland has also come a long way. But, we all have a long journey ahead as we clean up our greatest gift: our environment.

I let Brutus lead the way on his leash. Moving to the observation dock, overlooking the river, I looked about and saw that we were alone in that part of the park. Just off shore, the wooden ribs of some of the old wooden steamships that had been abandoned and burned to the waterline, were sticking out, more than usual; giving evidence of the receding water everywhere in the Great Lakes.

Remains of old steam ships in low water.

A snowy egret sat on the rusted-out boiler of one of the old steamships. The river was calm and empty of boat traffic.

Remains of the American Hoist and Derrick Factory.

Across the river sat the old skeletal remains of what was once the American Hoist and Derrick factory. My dad worked there until he died. He had also worked for Bay City Shovels for close to thirty years as a welder.

Manitowoc; a crane company out of Manitowoc, Wisconsin, bought out the company in the 70's. A couple of years later, the union decided to strike for higher wages. Manitowoc simply picked up and moved their operation back to Wisconsin; leaving my dad and all the other workers without jobs and without the pensions that they had been building for retirement. Dad had to start all over again, at American Hoist and Derrick; the former American Brownhoist.

One day, in mid-December of 1973, Dad came home from work, walked into the kitchen of his home on 24^th Street, and turned on his radio as he always did. My brother, Paul and I found him on the floor 24 hours later. He had died of a massive heart attack. We didn't find out until later that he had been having trouble with his heart for years; pains in his arms and chest. Dr. Culver Jones had told him not to do anything strenuous. He had been given a written order from the doctor, excusing him from climbing the booms that the factory produced and doing the more-difficult welding. In typical fashion, Dad ignored the order. My brother, Paul was approached by a union steward, after Dad's death; suggesting that he take legal action against American Hoist and Derrick for having Dad weld on the booms even though he had a written order not to do so. Paul and I both agreed that the action would not bring Dad back. The idea of monetary gain from his death seemed irreverent.

Seeing the old buildings had evoked some old memories. Brutus and I drove across the river and took some pictures of the of the old factory. The barbed wire and the empty shells of the cavernous buildings reminded me of the bombed-out ruins of a European city after the Nazi invasion. It was easy to imagine an armed Nazi guard at the old gate house.

I remember the old factory when I was a young boy; riding in our '55 Chevy, down Water Street, heading north. The opened doors of the building during the summer; the flashing sparks from the welders illuminating the darkened factory. It was still called Industrial Brownhoist at the time. To my young mind, it seemed like a desolate place to work. But to Dad, it was a necessary part of his life as a welder with no pension.

There are plans now to tear down the old, cavernous buildings to build a maritime center fashioned after one in Mystic, Connecticut, with trendy shops and a museum. It will serve Bay City well to rid the site of the old buildings with their rusted beams and broken windows.

Yet, memories of the old factory need to be preserved to show where we have come from. Bay City was not always the attractive place that it is now becoming. We have educated ourselves enough to know that we cannot take for granted the waterways that we have been blessed with. In my lifetime, Bay City has gone from a dusty, factory town to a tourist destination. We move in the right direction; but we have miles to go before we sleep.

Library Woes

I am happy to see that our Bay County Library System has the needed funds to carry on. I hope to see both sides of the argument learn something from the “small town” politics that has been going on much too long, in a city that is excited about it's future. We need to focus on the future of our planet, and the future of those who follow us. This subject has gotten more ink than any matter in memory. Let's hope that our fair city can continue towards a bright future.

Pal

Part Two

Pal left the hardware store without buying the roofing nails that he had come into town to get. He became quite flustered at all of the unwanted attention he was getting from many of the local people that he didn't even know. They inquired about his health and offered to help with the maintenance of his home. Winnie Hatch; an elderly widow, who lived just a short distance from Pal, offered to come to Pal's home and cook for him; do his laundry.

“I'm plenty capable of taking care of myself. Thank you,” Pal said; with more than a little irritation in his voice.

The old man left the hardware as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him. If this sort of thing continued, he would drive to Cadillac, or Traverse City, where he wouldn't be bothered by annoying people trying to “help” him. He did not want to be unkind to these folks. He also didn't like driving long distances unless it was absolutely necessary. He was aware of the frailties of old age. Most of these people, he figured, were just trying to be friendly. So he resigned himself to the fact that he could not escape the scrutiny of the do-gooders of Wexford County.

He had done things in his life that had given him unwanted fame. With fame, came the people who wanted to profit from his talents. He actually enjoyed the frivolous life for awhile. But these things lost all importance when his wife and only child, died before he did. He had moved to this isolated area to get away from the heat of the relentless spotlight that he found himself under. He wished only to be left alone. It seemed that the only way to accomplish this was to be rude and unfriendly.

Pal was not an unhappy man. His life had been rich. There had been great happiness. And there had been great tragedy.

His beloved wife and son were both killed while driving through the mountains. He had lingered in Denver, for a business obligation, while his wife and 45-year-old son, drove to Golden, Colorado, to see Buffalo Bill's grave. It had been one of those days where the temperature lingered just at the point of freezing; making the road conditions unpredictable. Just a slight bump from the car ahead of them, as it slid backwards on Lookout Mountain; was enough to send their rental car from the icy road, into the valley one quarter mile below.

His grief was unbounded.

He moved on after an extended period, feeling wiser in the knowledge of tragic death. His life had been rich. He must live his life to the extent of continuing to offer whatever value it had. He would continue to do his life's work. Self-pity was no an option.

Pal sat in his canvas chair; watching the shadows fall and darken the river. The sun could yet be seen on the high, far bank of the Manistee. The air was frosty. His faithful dog, Harvey, sat at his feet. He looked forward to the harsh winter ahead. He was well-prepared. Enough firewood was stacked against his cabin to last even the worst winter. He had shot several deer during rifle and bow seasons. His freezer held more than enough meat. There should be little reason to leave the warmth of his cabin through the winter. His work would receive his full attention.

The winter began with a few mild frosts in early November. by mid-December, the norther-Michigan winter had arrived with bountiful snow and sub-zero temperatures. The tiny northern towns became isolated to those not owning a snowmobile, or a 4-wheel-drive. Around Mesick, the snowmobiles buzzed like honey bees. The people here were proud of their ability to not only live in these winter conditions, but flourish in spite of them.

Down low in the deep Manistee River valley, the snowdrifts around Pals cabin were sculpted by the ripping winds, and grew with sloping grace, up to 15 feet.

Molly Riggs climbed into her 4-wheel-drive truck and drove down Hodenpyle Road almost daily to check up on Pal. Pal was true to his word: he had fastened the lock on the cable gate to his property. She continued to be obsessed with the idea of buying Pal's land. Molly reasoned that if she could somehow prove that he was no longer capable of caring for himself, Wexford County would provide for him, since he seemed to have no family. He would be placed in a convalescent home, where his land and his belongings could be sold to help pay for his care.

On a crystal-clear afternoon, Molly happened to be driving down Hodenpyle Road as she did on most days. She noticed a figure moving beyond the gate to Pal's cabin. It was a woman, carrying a wicker basket. She grabbed her field glasses from her glove box and focused in on the moving figure. She couldn't be absolutely sure, but it looked like Winnie Hatch. Her elbow accidentally hit the horn button on the steering wheel, giving an unwelcome blast on the horn; breaking the stone-stillness of the day. The figure turned at the sound. It was Winnie Hatch! She was taking food to the old man. Molly drove up and down Hodenpyle Road three different times that day; looking for Winnie Hatch's exit tracks. There were none. She returned the next morning. She got out of her truck and looked carefully around the entrance to the road. She found only the old tracks made by Winnie the day before. Day after day she returned to the site. There were deer and rabbit tracks, but no human exit tracks coming from the cabin.

Molly feared that Winnie had taken up residence at Pal's cabin. What if they married? She would never be able to purchase the property. She knew that Winnie had a son living somewhere in Iowa. If the old couple married, her son would inherit the land. She was puzzled over what to do next.

It was ten days before tracks appeared on Pal's driveway. They were not snowshoe tracks, but tire tracks. The tracks had turned right on Hodenpyle, heading for Mesick. She returned to the IGA to find Winnie shopping in the dairy section.

She grabbed her apron and pretended to be busy as Winnie walked by, headed for the checkout.

“Well, hi Winnie. How's Pal doing?”

The old woman looked at Molly suspiciously- trying to determine if there was anything behind the question, and how she knew that she had been seeing Pal in the first place. “Go ask him for yourself, he's just next door at the pharmacy,” Winnie said sharply.

“I'm just concerned for him. He seems to have such a hard time getting around.”

“He does just fine Molly Riggs. Pal seems to think that there is more to your concern for him than you are letting on. Why's a middle-aged, married woman like you, so interested in an old man?”

“Just Christian concern for my fellow man,” she said trying her best to look hurt by the comment.

“I'll thank you to mind your own business. Pal doesn't want to be bothered by nosy, meddling people like you!”

Molly went to the pharmacy that afternoon. Her younger sister, Rosemary worked there as a cashier. She questioned her sister as to what prescriptions Pal had filled- hoping to find evidence of poor health.

“Just one,” Rosemary said. “Viagra. That old fox is making whoopee with Winnie Hatch.”

(to be continued)

Sweet Potato Soup

This one is delicious.

Ingredients

1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped celery
2 tablespoons minced, peeled fresh ginger
¼ teaspoon dried thyme
1/8 teaspoon saffron threads
6 cups chopped, peeled sweet potato- (about 2 pounds)
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
7 ½ cups vegetable broth
1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper
2 cups chopped spinach

Preparation

Heat oil in large Dutch oven, over medium-high heat. Add chopped onion, celery, minced ginger, dried thyme, and saffron threads, and saute' 5 minutes. Add sweet potato and orange rind, and saute' 3 minutes. Add broth and red pepper, bring to a boil, cover and reduce heat. Simmer 25 minutes, or until potato is tender. Place half of potato mixture in a blender or food processor, and process until smooth. Pour pureed mixture into a bowl. Repeat procedure with remaining potato mixture. Return pureed mixture to pan. Stir in the spinach, and cook until thoroughly heated.

Looking For a Good Book?

It is to the interest of the commonwealth of mankind that there should be some one who is unconquered, some one against whom fortune has no power. Seneca ( 4 B.C.- A.D. 65)

Our ideal, laws and customs should be based on the proposition that each generation in turn becomes the custodian rather than the absolute owner of our resources- and each generation has the obligation to pass this inheritance on to the future. Alden Whitman

Ethical man- a Christian holding four aces. Mark Twain

I am never bored anywhere: being bored is an insult to oneself. Jules Renard

But if a man happens to find himself...he has a mansion which he can inhabit with dignity all the days of his life. James Michener

The realization that our small planet is only one of many worlds gives mankind the perspective it needs to realize sooner that our own world belongs to all its creatures, that the moon landing marks the end of our childhood as a race and the beginning of a newer and better civilization...it is not easy to see how the more extreme forms of nationalism can long survive when men have seen the Earth in its true perspective as a single small globe against the stars. Arthur C. Clarke

Next month we'll look at the churches of Bay County.

If you have any comments, or ideas for Life Along the Trail, please contact me at: boggdweller@yahoo.com.