When Art Champion first opened his ferry service from the mainland to Harsen's Island, it opened up a whole new world of travel to McDonald's Island on the Middle Channel. Now we could ride across on the ferry and take the muddy Middle Channel Road down to the Snooks Highway. To call it a road, in those early times is quite charitable, as it was no more than an untended muddy way - especially in the spring time or when the water was high. Many times the cars would get stuck in the mud down to the axels and we would all have to get out of the car and push, meanwhile becoming mud spattered. Those people who enjoy the luxury of paved roads and the convenience of the modern 1999 automobiles will never know the thrills and frustrations of those early days. It took literally hours and hours to get anywhere, but we didn't mind because we didn't know there was any other way! Being stuck in the mud was an every trip affair, and changing tires was another diversion. Cars would always develop flat tires, some times as many as 3 or 4 during a short trip. The tires were usually mounted in wells in the fenders, so it was not difficult to get at them - it was just the exasperating frequency of the breakdowns that lead to much cursing and sweating on the part of the driver who had to either replace them or fix the hole in the tires. We had special tire-fixing kits that would allow the driver to add a patch over the hole in the tire that was causing the problem. There were no convenient gas stations to take care of the flat tires, and of course no such thing as a road service to call to come and help. Going over one of the many bridges on the island was another matter altogether. The bridges would be short, but high pitched, one lane wooden affairs. One could not see if another car was coming from the other direction, so it meant getting out of the car and having someone walk to the top of the bridge to see if there was a car approaching from the other side. Some hardy souls would forego the scouting operation, just letting out a mighty horn blast to announce that they were preparing to cross the bridge. I never heard of any accidents caused by automobiles colliding on the bridges, but then - there was very little traffic to contend with in the early days. When my father got his first Model T Ford and was learning to drive, a chicken crossed his path. He stopped and hung his head out the side of the car, hollering "Get off the road" Much to his chagrin my mother said calmly "Why don't you blow your horn?" Of course, he hadn't thought of that. Since we would rent a spot to leave our outboard motor boat on Harsens Island when we were in Detroit, we had an elaborate affair, consisting of a tarp cover secured to the side of the boat with buttons to affix, to keep the boat dry and free of water when we arrived. Since we would usually arrive during the daytime there was little problem, except time consuming work removing the tarp from the boat. However, since we would wait until the last minute of daylight to depart McDonald's Island and go to our docking spot on Harsen's Island dusk would arrive. Have you ever been on Harsen's Island amid the tall rushes at dusk? If you have, you will know that hordes of mosquitoes come out to drive you to desperation. Removing our belongings from the boat and buttoning down the tarp was a horrifying experience. We would finally flee to our cars covered by welts from mosquito bites. But we didn't learn. Next week we would stay on our Island Paradise until the last minute again, and once more encounter the mosquito menace. Ah, those were the days. And we did it all for enjoyment, week after week.
I'm not too fond of taking the doggie out for his constitutional at night. We have no street lights and the woods are usually dark as pitch. Not a sound is heard. Being the scardey=cat I am, it's great to get back in the house.
You've heard me grow poetic over the leaves and the trees and the bushes in bloom, fireflies - you name it. They all enchant me. But the unrelenting darkness of the forest at night, makes me feel a little edgy.
But this week I observed something absolutely spine-tingling to me. There was a silvery full moon that lit up the area with one shining glow. The leafless trees towered over me. there were branches and twigs on the smaller ones; however, the fat tall trees were magnificently bathed in the silvery finery. They stood like stong sentinels, holding their ground.
I looked up at them in awe, for they presented a new view of the world to me. What had been shadowy, dark and mysterious - was now silhouetted in a delicate light that formed its own long shadows.The house next door was serene and beautiful in its new coat of pale moonlight.
I had never observed this scene before. Of course, I have not lived in a forest on top of a mountain before.
When you are 3,000 ft. up and seemingly, alone in the world, the sky seems so close. Some moonless nights when the sky is a like an inky piece of black velvet, you see myriads of stars you had never seen before. So many of them;. and, so bright and so close that you feel like you can get up on your tippy-toes and touch them.
When we live in the city, the world of people and noise and movements are so much with us, that we seldom have the occasion to observe nature's beauty.
Like a child, I am seeing magnificence in the simple things that I never took the time to appreciate when I was living in a busy world. Now, in a more relaxed atmosphere, I am discovering so many of nature's gifts - and standing in amazement as I drink in the beauty.
Yes, it was a hurricane way up North here in Michigan It was not a tornado. No churning or spinning around from those winds. Just flat line winds that came from the west, and then turned around and gave us another pounding from the East. It was early morning. I was on McDonald's Island with two of my high school girlfriends, Ethel and Norma Ray. Our parents were in Detroit - they had absolute trust in us, because when they said "Don't leave the island" - we didn't. When they said "no boys in the house", we didn't have any boys in the house. Ah, such long distance control they had over us in those days. I awoke to an eerie stillness, where the sky was strangely yellow and ominous. In panic I called out to the girls in the other room to get downstairs right away. They could recognize the urgency in my voice and we all three piled down the stairway to the first floor of the cottage.And then it hit. (In those days storms came upon you with no warning as there were no weather predicting agencies.) There were five big poplar trees at the western part of the island near Long Point Bay, These trees were used as a landmark, as we could always find our way back to our little island by locating those five poplars, like sentinels all in a row. The wind tore all those poplars down in one fell swoop, came barrelling across the marsh behind us and started its barrage at our cluster of cottages.It tore the shingles off the next-door cottage. We saw them peel off one sheet at a time, as we coward under the big oak table in the dining area. Then, all sorts of debris banged into our windows, wheelbarrows, boats, wooden swings, everything that wasn't nailed down. The windows were broken, one by one, while a big willow came crashing down on our roof falling into the bedrooms we had just vacated. Big willows were yanked out of the ground and we marvelled at the tangle of white roots that were exposed.Every boat on the island was blown out into the channel. It became dark as night. All the outhouses were, of course, blown over - except ours! My father had built a little dock from the cottage to the outhouse, as a I was afraid to walk on the ground at night. Snakes, you know! Well, that little dock held that outhouse upright. And for several days we had line-ups to use our outhouse, while our neighbors built new accommodations. We thought we would all be blown into the blackened channel ourselves. Then, the wind turned around and hit us from the front. Couldn't believe it. In those days, people didn't steal boats. They were all returned to us by the residents of Harsen's Island across the Middle Channel, even though they had problems of their own. Months later when my father was rebuilding our cottage, he found one of my socks which had blown between the walls. My friend of 75 years, Ethel, often recalls that terrible day when for the grace of God our little cottage - and that big oak dining table - gave us sanctuary from the big storm of 1933. When Art Champion first opened his ferry service from the mainland to Harsen's Island it opened up a whole new world of travel to McDonald's Island on the Middle Channel. Now we could ride across on the ferry and take the muddy Middle Channel Road down to the Snooks Highway. To call it a road, in those early times is quite charitable, as it was no more than an untended muddy way - especially in the spring time or when the water was high. Many times the cars would get stuck in the mud down to the axels and we would all have to get out of the car and push, meanwhile becoming mud spattered. Those people who enjoy the luxury of paved roads and the convenience of the modern 1999 automobiles will never know the thrills and frustrations of those early days. It took literally hours and hours to get anywhere, but we didn't mind because we didn't know there was any other way! Being stuck in the mud was an every trip affair, and changing tires was another diversion. Cars would always develop flat tires, some times as many as 3 or 4 during a short trip. The tires were usually mounted in wells in the fenders, so it was not difficult to get at them - it was just the exasperating frequency of the breakdowns that lead to much cursing and sweating on the part of the driver who had to either replace them or fix the hole in the tires. We had special tire-fixing kits that would allow the driver to add a patch over the hole in the tire that was causing the problem. There were no convenient gas stations to take care of the flat tires, and of course no such thing as a road service to call to come and help. Going over one of the many bridges on the island was another matter altogether. The bridges would be short, but high pitched, one lane wooden affairs. One could not see if another car was coming from the other direction, so it meant getting out of the car and having someone walk to the top of the bridge to see if there was a car approaching from the other side. Some hardy souls would forego the scouting operation, just letting out a mighty horn blast to announce that they were preparing to cross the bridge.I never heard of any accidents caused by automobiles colliding on the bridges, but then - there was very little traffic to contend with in the early days. When my father got his first Model T Ford and was learning to drive, a chicken crossed his path.He stopped and hung his head out the side of the car, hollering "Get off the road" Much to his chagrin my mother said calmly "Why don't you blow your horn?" Of course, he hadn't thought of that.Since we would rent a spot to leave our outboard motor boat on Harsens Island when we were in Detroit we had an elaborate affair, consisting of a tarp cover secured to the side of the boat with buttons to affix, to keep the boat dry and free of water when we arrived. Since we would usually arrive during the daytime there was little problem, except time consuming work removing the tarp from the boat. However, since we would wait until the last minute of daylight to depart McDonald's Island and go to our docking spot on Harsen's Island dusk would arrive. Have you ever been on Harsen's Island amid the tall rushes at dusk? If you have, you will know that hordes of mosquitoes come out to drive you to desperation. Removing our belongings from the boat and buttoning down the tarp was a horrifying experience. We would finally flee to our cars covered by welts from mosquito bites. But we didn't learn. Next week we would stay on our Island Paradise until the last minute again, and once more encounter the mosquito menace. Ah, those were the days. And we did it all for enjoyment, week after week.
Although we had a cottage on the Middle Channel of the St. Clair River since 1927 (in what is referred to as the Flats), I had never paid much attention to the freighters. We could see the black smoke that came out their stacks from our cottage, but I had no intimate knowledge of them and was not caught up in the wonder of their being. However one time during the late 1960's when I had just visited Holy Cross High School in Marine City, Michigan to help them plan the cover of their yearbook, I became hooked on freighters. On the way back to my home in suburban Detroit, I stopped at a Marine City restaurant situated on the St. Clair River which had a lovely view of the river. There had been so much turmoil in Detroit that I longed for the peace and simplicity of my retreat on the islands of the Flats. Suddenly as I sat a window in the restaurant, a huge freighter came downriver from Port Huron. It looked so serene and beautiful, as it silently pushed the water in front of it, that I sat there in awe as I watched it go by. It gave me the impressions of a "queen" in its regal splendor. And I thought, this is the spot in the world where I could find peace - watching the beautiful ships go by on this magnificent blue river. So, shortly thereafter, I fulfilled my dream and bought a home on the banks of the St. Clair River; seemingly so far away from the turmoil of the big city and yet near enough to be able to go there if I so wished to do so. At this time there were many freighters on the river. The St. Lawrence Seaway, which allowed passageway of many ships from around the world had opened up not too long before this time, and domestic freighters and those from faraway all went by. As river residents, we called the Great Lakes freighters "boats" and the ones from foreign countries "salties". We could recognize the difference by their distinctive shapes. The lakers, which stayed on the Great Lakes, were long and narrow and had rounded front and backs in those days; the salties were taller, shorter, and had pointed fronts. When you first move on the river, you go running down to the riverbank each time one goes by. But, of course, you couldn't keep doing that. There were so many on the river at that time, you would be constantly running back and forth. Visitors were entranced by these mighty ships, and always watched them with fascination wondering about each one. We bought a little paper-covered booklet called "Know Your Ships" which named each vessel, the year it was built, where it was from, its length, width, and capacity. The name of the line that owned that particular fleet would be on the side of the ship as well as its name; but it was on the back of the vessel that you could see the name and the country of origin. Their were different markings on the stacks for each "line" of ships, as well as having all the ships in the line painted with the same distinctive colorings and markings. We would drag out the binoculars so we could see the names and countries of origin more clearly, as well as the flags they were flying. Their native flag would be one side of the ship, while the US and Canadian flags would be on the other. We soon got to recognize various ships from a distance (although, we natives did not call them freighters or ships, we called these huge carriers "boats") One of the loveliest and easily recognizable was the ill-fated Fitzgerald, with its rust-colored and cream distinctive paint. We all felt a personal pain and loss when this lovely ship disappeared in the depths of Lake Superior during a vicious November storm. We couldn't believe it was really gone with its entire crew. Sometimes we would see one of its sister ships go by to remind us of our loss. Ships are always "she"; why I never knew. We would say in the winter-time (in the early years the freighters would all layup at their various ports for the icy winter, for repairs, and to allow the crew to visit their homes) "It is lonely without the water traffic" and we would long for the springtime and the passage of the first freighter of the season. We would all comment that we had observed the first one to go by. It was usually the white Medusa, local cement carrier; or one of the smaller Algoma line which would come downstream from Sault Ste. Marie in Canada. Sometimes we would forget our familiarity and acceptance of their presence, and go running down to the riverbank again to greet the first ship f the season. Many families along the river, including Marine City, had men who worked on the "boats". It was the "thing" to do, for young men, after graduation from high school, to spend at least one year working on the freighters. So the local folk had an intimate knowledge of the ships. Besides the freighters, there were busy little tug-boats pushing barges, small fishing boats with outboard motors, cruisers, sail boats, coast guard cutters and all types of craft going by. At that particular time in history, there was almost a constant stream of river traffic going by and always something of interest to see in the activity. We saw the British Royal yacht go by, Jacques Cousteau's Calypso, large passenger ships, speedboats, restored old wooden treasures, as well as the fleet of magnificent sailboats as they made their way upstream to Port Huron to ready themselves for the annual Port Huron to Mackinac Race. Of course, there were the metal ferry boats which carried people and cars from the mainland to Harsens Island or over to Port Lambton in Canada. These ferry boats made their trips back and forth, and from a distance seemed like little bees as they plied the waters on a regular basis. Occasionally, a group would rent one of the ferry boats, with its large metal deck, and the evening would be filled with merriment and music as they danced away the evening on their trips along the waterway. It always made you long that you were aboard. The waters of the St. Clair River do not warm up sufficiently to enjoy swimming in them until August; however in late summer we would see large groups of rafters, people in rubber inner tubes, drifting downstream. If you were a swimmer, rafter, or a fisherman in a small boat you had to maintain a constant vigil to make sure that you did not end up in the path of one of the freighters. A big freighter takes quite a distance to swerve or change its course to avoid hitting these "intruders". They would issue many long warning blasts on their huge horns; and, if you had any sense and weren't scared out of your wits by the sight of the large ship bearing down upon you, you would make sure you got out of its path.
I have spent the summers on the small spit of land on the Middle Channel of the St. Clair River called McDonald's Island from 1927 to about 1969. Then we moved to a permanent home on the St. Clair River in Marine City. So I have been around these waters for 73 years. Nowadays whenever the water is higher than usual, the papers and reports from agencies who measure such things have dire predictions of what will become of the area. When the water is lower, the same people issue their predictions of disaster; always finding some one or something to account for the phenomenon. They blame all sorts of things for the low water: the water being siphoned off by Canada, the deliberate slowdown of water flow by those in charge at the locks in the Soo area in the Upper Peninsula, or the USA in the Chicago area. Of course, when this the Great Lakes area has had less snowfall or rain than normal the water funneling down to the Flats will be lower. That's readily understandable. Great problems are caused when the waters are lower than usual. Some people cannot get their boats out of their canals. There is concern that the freighters will not have deep enough water to navigate. Some pleasure boaters hit bottom in areas where they had traveled before without any difficulty. Folks have to build ladders to get comfortably from their boats to their docks, and some folks revel in the beaches that appear out of nowhere. Of course the beaches are enjoyed only in the areas where the entire river or lake side has not been changed by the construction of seawalls. (These seawalls were built when the water was high and property owners were concerned about flooding problems or about losing parts of their property). When seawalls are built, the natural beaches disappear. The Native Americans, who have observed such things as high and low waters in the area, because they have lived off the land and are dependent upon the water that surrounds it, have claimed that the water level goes up for seven years and then goes down for seven years. My personal observation is that is true, give or take a couple years this way or that. We, the people. with our over-populating the area, tinkering with nature by expelling tons of chemical pollution into the water and area. destroying the ozone layer in the air, etc. with our civilization may be contributing to a change in the pattern which nature itself had established over the many years. My personal observation, from living on a flat spit of land in the middle of one of the channels, as well as on the banks of the mighty St. Clair River itself, is that the water levels go up or down in cycles. Many people are convinced that the St. John Marsh area, along M-29 south of Algonac, has always been a marsh area. Not so. I remember in the late 30's playing golf on that area where a golf course had been built by Will St. John. This is the same man who started the construction of homes on the Colony. Many of the mounds that you see have been constructed by beavers, but many of them were formerly the sides of sand traps on a golf course. I played golf on the course, so I know it was there. I remember when they dug the canals along the edges of the "golf course" to deposit the dirt for a roadbed for M-29 to run through that area. That was when the water was low. I also remember the military men coming out from the air field (which was then known as Selfridge Field) to shore up the same M-29 during high water periods with hundreds of sand bags. This was done to keep the road from flooding out in that area. Now, in 1999, there is much concern about the water being so low. I can remember years in the 30's when the water level was so low, that we could walk across the entire back of McDonald's Island to the bay that lay to the West of it. There would be brush fires in this land, which the islanders would rally to fight with brooms, old rugs, and shovels; in an effort to protect our cottages. I don't remember the brush fires ever burning anyone's home. We always worked together and conquered them. There weren't any canals built to cut through the island, or for havens for boats at that time. It was then illegal to make an artificial cut for these purposes. I also remember years of high water. Water that covered the island; and swallowed up cottages that were not built up on cement posts as our was. I remember one year, in the mid-1930's, when the water was so high that we could ride right up to our porch with our outboard motor boat, tie the boat to one of the porch posts, and step over the railing into the cottage. The lot next to ours was covered with water to such a depth that in the springtime there were large carp flopping around in that lot. For some reason, this infuriated my mother - and she would wade out into the waters of that lot and trash the carp with her rake telling them to get out of there or else. The high water ran from the channel all the way across the island and back to Long Pointe Bay behind us. This posed quite a dilemma if one wanted to use the outhouse. It meant wading through the high water with boots on or finding some other way. I was in my middle teens and had quite a crush on the boy next door who was out there walking with his high rubber boots on. Nature called, my folks were out fishing, and there was nothing for me to do except to row the small boat out to the outhouse. Then came the problem of how to open the door and hold the boat in check while sitting on the throne. I decided to row the front of the boat right into the outhouse, keep by feet in the boat and stop it from floating over to the bay. Of course, the young man had to wade through the waters at that precise moment, observe my embarrassing situation and greet me with a bemused "hello". So you see, there were high waters and there were low waters - and it is my observation that it will continue to be that way unless our "civilization" destroys the natural sequence of things completely.
From one Flats lover to another! I have been writing to you about McDonald's island, on the Middle Channel, opposite Brown's tavern, and bounded by the Fisher Cut and Dickinson Island on the other side of the other side of the Fisher cut.
The part of the island which went up toward Lake St. Clair was mostly uninhabited at that time, except for an old ice house owned by a man named "Sears". Behind us was Long Pointe Bay.
During dry summers, we had a path worn across to the back of the island to the Bay. It had long white sandy beaches, it was protected by rushes on all sides and very few people knew it was there. You could go there and escape the "world". It was very shallow and led into Fisher Bay and Goose Bay. Being shallow, the water was usually up to our knees, and it warmed up before the other water ways and cuts.
During the good old days when there were "FISH" - we used to go back there with a big oval copper wash kettle and fill it with big yellow-belly perch which we caught two at a time - "double-headers".
During the spring there would be a big run of "silver" bass in the little Bay, but these were bony and not as succulent as the perch - which I swear were the best-eating fish in the world.
As a child I never understood why we ate so much fish - which my long suffering mother cleaned without a word of complaint. Now I realize it was because we didn't have refrigeration; and, besides, fish were free and it was depression time when I was in junior and high schools. (I went to Jackson Intermediate and Southeastern High Schools, because we lived on Somerset near E. Warren.}
The story of "how we drove up to the island each week from Detroit" is another interesting tale. My mother would unpack our dirty clothes on Monday morning in Detroit, wash and iron them and get started packing clothes and provisions all week long, for our departure on Saturday early a.m. for another trek to our beloved flats. There were no expressways, so it would take us hours - and oh, the stops along the way. My Dad must have been the most patient man in the world, because he suffered through all these "stops" with nary a complaint, after having worked all night at Hudson Motor Car Co.
We drove through old Mt.Clemens with its smelly rotten-egg odor from the "bath houses" there. We had to stop at a farm for "eggs", at Stahl's in New Baltimore for bread, at a house that had good spring water along the road in Anchorville, and finally reached our debarking point at the end of a little road that goes past the present Margaret Jean's restaurant and the Century 21 Real Estate building.
There was an old-time grocery store at the end of the road by the water, (which is long gone). Here we got the rest of our provisions. (I believe the owner' name was Mr. Tremble - but I can't remember for sure- or was it Mr.Taft?). I do remember that he had a long glass case of penny candy. We kids would press our noses along the glass, and take interminable time choosing which penny candy we would spend our tightly- clutched -in- little- fists money on. Would it be little sugar babies in wax bodies, or Mary Janes, or Baby Ruths, or little sugar dots on pieces of paper, or soldiers, or any of the delicacies which were there The patient owner just waited while we procrastinated. The folks would buy ice for the ice-box at our cottage. We would haul the ice block in the boat, down the Middle Channel, past Dckinsons and finally to our cottage on Mc Donald's Island.
By the time we got there the ice block had dwindled to half of its size - and when we popped it into the warm ice box which had been warming up all week during our absence it would quickly melt almost into oblivion. The melted ice would fill the metal bowl which was kept under the ice box for overflow and flow onto the floor if it wasn't emptied in time.
The Champion boys were young men at that time, Frank and Art Champion. They lived on Dickinson Island at the head of the junction of the middle channel and the north. This was long before Art Champion had the ferry to carry cars to Harsen's Island. They had two wooden Chris-Crafts which they used to ferry customers up the Middle Channel to their respective islands. I believe one of them had a helper called Clayte. We would load up the Chris Craft and through storm and peaceful waters, make the trip to the island.
My only son, (born in 1943) Russell Whitehead lived on the Colony - on Colony Drive - had both a powerboat and a lightning sailboat. We used to drive through the Doty as we made our little rounds, and also on our way to Long Pointe Bay.
During the times of extremely high water, I remember the sorrow I felt at seeing most of those cottages flooded. I loved McDonald's Island most before we had electricity. With the kerosene lamps and stove, we harkened back to the old days - and somehow it was more "cottage". We used to lament the fact that we did not have electricity, but when they did drop the cable under the Middle Channel and we had the power it spoiled things! What a commotion that was in the old pre-electricity days when we opened up the cottage each May.
The willow trees were starting to get green and the air was fresh and clean = and my folks, with their old house-must-be-clean Belgian backgrounds, really gave that cottage a good spring cleaning.
Can you remember the days when everyone had to "spring clean"? It was a ritual, just like the big old dose of sulphur and molasses that my mother gave me to strengthen me up after the winter because I looked "peeked". Well, we would go up there; and, if the water wasn't too high, there was much raking of dead twigs and debris. And on a sunny day all the beds and springs, had to be carried down from the upper floor and outside to be sloshed down with pails of water and thoroughly washed. Including the "pot" which was always kept under the bed in case of a nighttime emergency. (During the day we used the outhouse. We were were quite upscale, because we had a two-seater.) The mattresses, carpets, and blankets would be strung on a clothesline, between the willow trees, and we would beat the living begeebers out of them with a clothes beater. This was an affair that looked like a big tennis racket with wire loops. We'd take turns flailing away and the dust would fly! The cleansing sunshine would help whisk away the musty smell of a cottage that had been closed up all winter, and then we would haul it all up again and put it back in place. Then everything on the first floor had to be hauled outside for the same loving treatment. In the living room we had a coal and wood burning pot-bellied stove for heat, and always with a tea kettle full of water heating on the shelf on the top of it. We didn't have traditional running water. I was the running water - when my mother would hand me the pail and say "Lorraine, run out to the end of the dock and bring me a pail of water". I was an only child. I loved Phyl's page about her go-around with the telephone company. I also found that she was U of M. I was Class of 1940 Maize and Blue. Your mother's pg was also a favorite of mine. During the 1800's when Detroit was a booming building center, the 4 McDonald brothers were bringing sailboats full of building timbers from Alpena to Detroit, when they ran into a horrendous storm. They found shelter on an uninhabited long spit of land in the Middle Channel. They camped there until the storm passed, and found it so delightful that they made it a regular stop on their trips from Alpena to Detroit with lumber to build the booming Detroit community. Walter, Zeke, Ed and Frank McDonald, divided the land into four equal parts and each staked out his own claim. At least that is what Ed McDolnald's son, Jack, (now deceased - in fact, I suppose - am sure- they are all gone to the happy flats in the sky). My next installment will be about the big "hurricane" of 1933 we went through while on the island - and the days of flooding high water. People (and newspapers and environmentalists) get all agog about the water levels, not realizing - as we old flats people know - that the water level goes up and then it goes down in cycles - and will forever, probably, be thus. Just something to expect and "live with". Bye bye for now Lorraine
What a glorious sunshiny day, blue skies hardly displaying a wisp of a cloud. But Fall is in the air - Jack Frost has laid his cold hands on my glorious display of salmon Impatiens that I planted to surround my home last Spring; and they are starting to droop their heads in anticipation of the winter months ahead.
But, today, all is aglow with the beginning of the colorful foliage we are blessed with every year. As I look out my kitchen window I see that skinny tree that is the harbinger of the beauties to come, with a smattering of tangerine-red leaves. It is always the first to announce the change of the season.
A few other trees have a myriad of colorful leaves near the tops, but mostly all is still crisp and green.
class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt">Across the street are the Colorado Blue Spruce, all in a row, which will form a barrier next winter to the cold wintry blasts that are sure to follow.
Autumn in Southeastern Michigan - how magnificent! Nature is sending her rewards for all those souls who will view them with awe and appreciate their splendor.
We must not give up hope for a more peaceful tomorrow. The bounty of beauty tells us all will eventually be as it always has been, if we will just contemplate the never-ending yearly pattern of what is around us.
Voor de stamboom van onze kinderen was ik ook op zoek personen met de naam Lievrouw in Amerika. Meme Paula had namelijk ne nonkel die naar Amerika getrokken was en er ook gestorven was. Tijdens de 2de wereldoorlog waren de neven die in het Amerikaanse leger dienden eens bij meme op bezoek geweest maar daarna hoorden ze er niets meer van. Dus leek het opzoeken van een stamboom de gelegenheid om ook daar iets over aan de weet te komen. Dus via Internet alle post- en email- adressen opgezocht van de Lievrouws in Amerika en deze personen aangeschreven. Ik vond niet alleen afstammelingen van nonkel in Amerika maar ook nog van anderen. Lillmill was 1 van die andere ze was toen 81 jaar. Bij haar geboorte kreeg ze de naam Lorraine Lievrouw. Later huwde ze een zekere Miller (waarvan de voornaam me nu ontsnapt) De naam Lillmill is dus een verbastering van de namen Lorraine, Lievrouw en Miller. Ze heeft 1 zoon, 1 kleindochter en 3 achterkleinkinderen. Nu met haar 87 is ze nog steeds in de weer met e-mailen. Regelmatig krijgen we een verhaal in onze postbus. Ik vind het de moeite om deze verhalen in een blog te plaatsen. De verhalen gaan over haar leven, haar herinneringen en haar emoties.
Ze zijn wel in het engels maar hoop dat dit een niet zo groot probleem is.
