My Story |
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My Name Was Strangely Magical
By James Lawrence Donahue
It has been said that before we come into this world, we contract for certain positions in life. And since we arrive as babes, without memory of past lives and just what that contract is, we pre-assign ourselves specific names that help us remember. If this is true, something may have gone wrong when I was named.
Lamenting The Restricted World Of Contemporary Childhood
There appears to be a movement among elementary school districts across the United States to ban children from playing all forms of contact games while left unsupervised on school grounds. School authorities cite the reason as fear of lawsuit from accidental injury. One parent in the Massachusetts district complained that the ban on tag and other contact games is unnecessary. “I think it’s unfortunate that kids’ lives are micromanaged and there are social skills they’ll never develop on their own,” said Debbie Laferriere. “Playing tag is just part of being a kid.” How correct she is. My own experiences growing up about a half century ago were amazingly active, extremely enjoyable, highly memorable, almost totally unsupervised, and sometimes dangerous as hell. Not only did we play wild games of tag and touch football, we explored dark drainpipes that seemed to lead to nowhere, jumped across floating ice floes along the coast of Lake Huron, explored empty and dilapidated buildings and stood by the side of the road in the winter trying to get passing snowplows to bury us with bladed snow. Amazingly, we all survived our childhood.
There appears to be a movement among elementary school districts across the United States to ban children from playing all forms of contact games while left unsupervised on school grounds. School authorities cite the reason as fear of lawsuit from accidental injury. One parent in the Massachusetts district complained that the ban on tag and other contact games is unnecessary. “I think it’s unfortunate that kids’ lives are micromanaged and there are social skills they’ll never develop on their own,” said Debbie Laferriere. “Playing tag is just part of being a kid.” How correct she is. My own experiences growing up about a half century ago were amazingly active, extremely enjoyable, highly memorable, almost totally unsupervised, and sometimes dangerous as hell. Not only did we play wild games of tag and touch football, we explored dark drainpipes that seemed to lead to nowhere, jumped across floating ice floes along the coast of Lake Huron, explored empty and dilapidated buildings and stood by the side of the road in the winter trying to get passing snowplows to bury us with bladed snow. Amazingly, we all survived our childhood.
Memories Of My Early Childhood
I have recollections of a time before the world was at war and people were still living under the shadow of the Great Depression. As children, we thought little about the effects of poverty. While I was luckier than most, there was an awareness that my playmates in the neighborhood sometimes went without a good meal, wore old worn tennis shoes with holes in the bottom and dungarees with knees so bare their mothers sewed patches there.
I have recollections of a time before the world was at war and people were still living under the shadow of the Great Depression. As children, we thought little about the effects of poverty. While I was luckier than most, there was an awareness that my playmates in the neighborhood sometimes went without a good meal, wore old worn tennis shoes with holes in the bottom and dungarees with knees so bare their mothers sewed patches there.
There is Real Magic In the World
As the son of a chemical engineer and staunch Methodist parents, I grew up in a relatively restricted environment. I say that, because even though I was exposed to a library of books, newspapers and magazines and enjoyed the privilege of travel and education, my training was limited to the restrictions of a socially controlled approach to reality. There was little room left for exploration outside the realm of exact science. In other words, if you couldn't see, touch, taste or smell it, the subject in question did not exist. At least in my father's mind. There was this basic rule of science in our house for everything except religion.
As the son of a chemical engineer and staunch Methodist parents, I grew up in a relatively restricted environment. I say that, because even though I was exposed to a library of books, newspapers and magazines and enjoyed the privilege of travel and education, my training was limited to the restrictions of a socially controlled approach to reality. There was little room left for exploration outside the realm of exact science. In other words, if you couldn't see, touch, taste or smell it, the subject in question did not exist. At least in my father's mind. There was this basic rule of science in our house for everything except religion.
My Early Introduction To Music
Our parents introduced us to music at an early age. We had a large Philco entertainment console in our living room that contained a radio and 78-rpm record player. They bought recordings of symphonic classics by such composers as Beethoven and Schubert, the music of Victor Herbert, the Gilbert and Sullivan Operettas, and I recall one well-worn and very faint recording of the great Marion Anderson singing the Ave Maria on one side, and a sad spiritual . . . “Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child” . . . on the other. I can still sing the words to that spiritual and I can still hear the beautiful sound of her voice as she sang it. I literally wore out needles and the tracks of some of my most favored recordings.
Our parents introduced us to music at an early age. We had a large Philco entertainment console in our living room that contained a radio and 78-rpm record player. They bought recordings of symphonic classics by such composers as Beethoven and Schubert, the music of Victor Herbert, the Gilbert and Sullivan Operettas, and I recall one well-worn and very faint recording of the great Marion Anderson singing the Ave Maria on one side, and a sad spiritual . . . “Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child” . . . on the other. I can still sing the words to that spiritual and I can still hear the beautiful sound of her voice as she sang it. I literally wore out needles and the tracks of some of my most favored recordings.
Glad To Have Lived When I Did
If there is any possibility that I had any choice in the time I was to live, and the family I was to be born into, I couldn’t have chosen better. Times were good in the years just after World War II. Jobs were easy to find then. There was no such thing as a "probation" period before you found out if you had a permanent job. And we never heard of one-year "evaluations" by corporate subordinates. If we did something wrong we got a royal chewing out which was, in a strange way, the way we learned how to do things right.
The Pere Marquette
When we lived in Harbor Beach, our house was on a hill that looked down over a golf course. Just beyond the number one fairway was the Pere Marquette Railroad track. The train, driven by one the last of the old steam locomotives, came into our town every day at about 6 p.m., at about the time my father was getting home from his daily job and my mother was setting the table for dinner. We always knew the train was coming when its whistle sounded as it was approaching the crossing where old US-25 twisted its way out of the city.
When we lived in Harbor Beach, our house was on a hill that looked down over a golf course. Just beyond the number one fairway was the Pere Marquette Railroad track. The train, driven by one the last of the old steam locomotives, came into our town every day at about 6 p.m., at about the time my father was getting home from his daily job and my mother was setting the table for dinner. We always knew the train was coming when its whistle sounded as it was approaching the crossing where old US-25 twisted its way out of the city.
Mom and Dad with Beloved Dog Tawny at Kentucky Home
Remembering My Father
A year or two ago I published a special remembrance of my mother to commemorate Mother’s Day, but neglected to do the same for my father when Father’s Day came around. I am choosing to fill that void this year. For those who choose to read this story you will find that he was a most remarkable man .Edwin George Donahue was born in 1906 at or near Ringgold, Texas, in a covered wagon while the family was moving from a farm near Galveston north to Bonner Springs, Kansas. The only record of his birth was a notation scribbled by his mother in the family Bible. That was the only document Dad ever had after it became time for him to apply for Social Security. Dad was among the youngest of nine children in the family of Peter and Grace Donahue. Both of these grandparents passed before I was born so I never knew them.
A year or two ago I published a special remembrance of my mother to commemorate Mother’s Day, but neglected to do the same for my father when Father’s Day came around. I am choosing to fill that void this year. For those who choose to read this story you will find that he was a most remarkable man .Edwin George Donahue was born in 1906 at or near Ringgold, Texas, in a covered wagon while the family was moving from a farm near Galveston north to Bonner Springs, Kansas. The only record of his birth was a notation scribbled by his mother in the family Bible. That was the only document Dad ever had after it became time for him to apply for Social Security. Dad was among the youngest of nine children in the family of Peter and Grace Donahue. Both of these grandparents passed before I was born so I never knew them.
Mom
Velma Louise Andrews probably spent most of her life under the shadow of my father. She chose to be a stay-at-home mother of her three children and a dutiful wife who I believe loved us all very deeply. I have fond memories of becoming aware of myself in that house on South Huron Avenue in Harbor Beach, Michigan. I remember the big dark brown stuffed couch and matching chair, of being held in my mother’s arms and rocked in the family rocker when I was sick, and sitting with the family at our dining room table for dinner each evening after Dad got home. I have memories of talking to Mom in the kitchen of that house while she prepared meals, canned fruits and vegetables from our garden or ironed clothes. It seemed that she never stopped working. Mom lived a life of service, always believing that there was something good to be found in everyone, no matter how badly they behaved, and always attempting to make the best of every day that she lived. This was the philosophy she taught us as children.
Velma Louise Andrews probably spent most of her life under the shadow of my father. She chose to be a stay-at-home mother of her three children and a dutiful wife who I believe loved us all very deeply. I have fond memories of becoming aware of myself in that house on South Huron Avenue in Harbor Beach, Michigan. I remember the big dark brown stuffed couch and matching chair, of being held in my mother’s arms and rocked in the family rocker when I was sick, and sitting with the family at our dining room table for dinner each evening after Dad got home. I have memories of talking to Mom in the kitchen of that house while she prepared meals, canned fruits and vegetables from our garden or ironed clothes. It seemed that she never stopped working. Mom lived a life of service, always believing that there was something good to be found in everyone, no matter how badly they behaved, and always attempting to make the best of every day that she lived. This was the philosophy she taught us as children.
The Smart Analytical Thinking Of Crows
When I was a young boy growing up in Michigan, my father kept a large garden in a field directly behind our house. One spring when Dad was planting his seeds, he noticed a crow following him down the open row, eating the seeds. Dad of course chased the bird away and replanted his row, this time covering the seeds as fast as he put them in the row. The bird began digging up the seeds. Thus began Dad’s personal melee against that "pesky" crow. Dad tried every trick he could think of, but the crow seemed to always be one step behind him. He even put up a scarecrow, which the crow found to be a good place to sit and stare down at my father while he worked in his garden.
When I was a young boy growing up in Michigan, my father kept a large garden in a field directly behind our house. One spring when Dad was planting his seeds, he noticed a crow following him down the open row, eating the seeds. Dad of course chased the bird away and replanted his row, this time covering the seeds as fast as he put them in the row. The bird began digging up the seeds. Thus began Dad’s personal melee against that "pesky" crow. Dad tried every trick he could think of, but the crow seemed to always be one step behind him. He even put up a scarecrow, which the crow found to be a good place to sit and stare down at my father while he worked in his garden.
Remembering Back Yard Car Tinkering
There was a time, when I was young, that every brand of automobile on the market had its own design, when young boys prided themselves on being able to tell them apart, and when it was cool to customize cars to make them look even more uniquely different than any other vehicle on the road. It was a common sight to see men with their heads under the hoods of their cars, or an engine raised by block and tackle on a tree in the yard while it was being worked on.
There was a time, when I was young, that every brand of automobile on the market had its own design, when young boys prided themselves on being able to tell them apart, and when it was cool to customize cars to make them look even more uniquely different than any other vehicle on the road. It was a common sight to see men with their heads under the hoods of their cars, or an engine raised by block and tackle on a tree in the yard while it was being worked on.
Surviving The Reckless Days Of My Youth
When I think back over my life I have to believe there was some force that was keeping me safe from harm. There were numerous times in my early years when I should have been killed. Miraculously I always escaped alive, and except for one serious traffic accident that occurred during my college years, walked away totally unscathed. Even the accident may have been a blessing in disguise. It occurred two weeks before I received notice from my draft board to report for a physical exam for military service. My injuries were severe enough that I missed the Vietnam War.
When I think back over my life I have to believe there was some force that was keeping me safe from harm. There were numerous times in my early years when I should have been killed. Miraculously I always escaped alive, and except for one serious traffic accident that occurred during my college years, walked away totally unscathed. Even the accident may have been a blessing in disguise. It occurred two weeks before I received notice from my draft board to report for a physical exam for military service. My injuries were severe enough that I missed the Vietnam War.
Prom Night
Susan Philbrick
The year I joined the high school band and got moved into the percussion section, I played snare drum next to another drummer named Susan Philbrick. Susan was a thin red-headed girl from the lower grades who had a bundle of energy and took an obvious interest in me. I had little experience with “girl friends” in those days and suppose I was flattered by the attention. It was not long before we were a couple. Because we were in the band together we were together a lot. We were present at every athletic event and eventually found time to be together after school and on our time away from school. Her father, Paul Philbrick and I sang in the church choir and men’s quartet together. Paul and my father worked together at the plant. It was not long before I was invited to the Philbrick home after church for Sunday dinners.
The year I joined the high school band and got moved into the percussion section, I played snare drum next to another drummer named Susan Philbrick. Susan was a thin red-headed girl from the lower grades who had a bundle of energy and took an obvious interest in me. I had little experience with “girl friends” in those days and suppose I was flattered by the attention. It was not long before we were a couple. Because we were in the band together we were together a lot. We were present at every athletic event and eventually found time to be together after school and on our time away from school. Her father, Paul Philbrick and I sang in the church choir and men’s quartet together. Paul and my father worked together at the plant. It was not long before I was invited to the Philbrick home after church for Sunday dinners.
Why "Drinking Water" Is Unfit To Drink
I am old enough to remember the days when we used to drink water right from the faucet and not think anything of it. I should qualify that. I disliked drinking tap water because the taste and odor of chlorine, dumped into the city water system at the filtration plant was terrible. Some days a gulp of that water was like drinking Roman Cleanser straight from the bottle. The strength of the chlorination depended, I suppose, on who was working at the plant or how impure the water pumped from nearby Lake Huron tested. Looking back on those days I am amazed that we didn’t all die from cancer or some terrible liver disease.
I am old enough to remember the days when we used to drink water right from the faucet and not think anything of it. I should qualify that. I disliked drinking tap water because the taste and odor of chlorine, dumped into the city water system at the filtration plant was terrible. Some days a gulp of that water was like drinking Roman Cleanser straight from the bottle. The strength of the chlorination depended, I suppose, on who was working at the plant or how impure the water pumped from nearby Lake Huron tested. Looking back on those days I am amazed that we didn’t all die from cancer or some terrible liver disease.
The Joy Of Gardening
I grew up on a Michigan farm where we not only raised crops, but maintained a large garden. As early as I can remember my father had a vegetable garden behind the house. I spend my summers hoeing weeds and picking the berries, peas, beans, corn, squash and potatoes that we produced. I think I thought of working in the garden as a chore in those early years. Yet after I married and my wife and I began settling in rental and later owned homes, I found myself spading up potential garden plots in our back yards, and putting seed in the earth each spring.
I grew up on a Michigan farm where we not only raised crops, but maintained a large garden. As early as I can remember my father had a vegetable garden behind the house. I spend my summers hoeing weeds and picking the berries, peas, beans, corn, squash and potatoes that we produced. I think I thought of working in the garden as a chore in those early years. Yet after I married and my wife and I began settling in rental and later owned homes, I found myself spading up potential garden plots in our back yards, and putting seed in the earth each spring.
Ma and Pa Aren't On the Farm Anymore
I grew up during a time when families could make a good living on farms no larger than 160-acres. We lived on such a farm in Michigan. Those were the days when many dairy farmers milked their cows by hand and families dared to drink "raw" non-pasteurized milk laced with real cream. I remember the rich smell of the freshly turned earth. I remember the satisfying feeling I had when a day's work was finished and I walked to the house, my face and clothes covered in dirt (no air conditioned cabs on that tractor), for a bath and a good hearty supper. How grand it was to lie in my bed, next to an open window, listening to the frogs, loons and other creatures of the night. It was as if they were singing a lullaby as I drifted off to sleep.
Remembering Living Free
There is no doubt in my mind that if I had been born later and growing up in the United States today, I would be spending much of my time behind bars. Not because I am a dishonest or dangerous man, but because I have always lived free and remain to this day a nonconformist.
There is no doubt in my mind that if I had been born later and growing up in the United States today, I would be spending much of my time behind bars. Not because I am a dishonest or dangerous man, but because I have always lived free and remain to this day a nonconformist.
Racking Up Miles On Our Cars
I caught a news report a few years ago about cars that easily travel over 100,000 miles and often go twice that distance before they end up in an automobile junk yard. The story said better engineering, higher performance engines, new synthetic oils and other factors are among the reasons for the longer life of the vehicles on contemporary roads. I must admit that contemporary vehicles are going the extra distance. One of my last cars was an American made van that traveled well over 200,000 miles and was still going strong. I am old enough to remember an earlier time when it was considered a milestone when a car reached that 100,000 mile mark. I once stopped along the road and danced a little jig when an Oldsmobile I drove hit that straight zero mark across the dial.
I caught a news report a few years ago about cars that easily travel over 100,000 miles and often go twice that distance before they end up in an automobile junk yard. The story said better engineering, higher performance engines, new synthetic oils and other factors are among the reasons for the longer life of the vehicles on contemporary roads. I must admit that contemporary vehicles are going the extra distance. One of my last cars was an American made van that traveled well over 200,000 miles and was still going strong. I am old enough to remember an earlier time when it was considered a milestone when a car reached that 100,000 mile mark. I once stopped along the road and danced a little jig when an Oldsmobile I drove hit that straight zero mark across the dial.
Social Mores, Whiskers And Santa Claus
I grew my first beard while attending college in the late 1950s at a time when electric razors were in and beards were definitely out. I fell in with nonconformists, read Jack Kerouac’s book “On The Road” and declared myself a member of the Beat Generation. Part of the rebellious spirit was a decision to declare myself an agnostic. I have sported whiskers off and on ever since.
I grew my first beard while attending college in the late 1950s at a time when electric razors were in and beards were definitely out. I fell in with nonconformists, read Jack Kerouac’s book “On The Road” and declared myself a member of the Beat Generation. Part of the rebellious spirit was a decision to declare myself an agnostic. I have sported whiskers off and on ever since.
Elkton’s “Blue Man” Hoax
It was in 1958, at about the time I was pouring over books in college that the police in Huron County, Michigan, where I grew up were dealing with the strange sightings of a “Little Blue Man.” People driving on some of the county’s lonely country roads late in the night were being startled by the figure of a bluish humanoid figure with flashing blue lights. They reported seeing this figure crossing the road ahead of them or walking along the road, sometimes just behind a fence row.
It was in 1958, at about the time I was pouring over books in college that the police in Huron County, Michigan, where I grew up were dealing with the strange sightings of a “Little Blue Man.” People driving on some of the county’s lonely country roads late in the night were being startled by the figure of a bluish humanoid figure with flashing blue lights. They reported seeing this figure crossing the road ahead of them or walking along the road, sometimes just behind a fence row.
George Steib and Tesla
It was during that magical early spring of 1959, when I was caught up by the beat generation writers and running wild with the Beaver Boys and their Dixieland music that I met George Steib. I don’t recall how we crossed paths except that he was renting a room in a house directly across the street from Mogg Hall. But there was a crazy night of drinking in the Flamingo Bar, which we lovingly referred to as “The Bird,” and Steib sat across my table, filling my brain with his prose and wit. I decided that night that I liked this man very much. A few days later Steib and I were sitting in the shade of the front porch where he lived, sipping Tom Collins drinks, and talking about Tesla.
It was during that magical early spring of 1959, when I was caught up by the beat generation writers and running wild with the Beaver Boys and their Dixieland music that I met George Steib. I don’t recall how we crossed paths except that he was renting a room in a house directly across the street from Mogg Hall. But there was a crazy night of drinking in the Flamingo Bar, which we lovingly referred to as “The Bird,” and Steib sat across my table, filling my brain with his prose and wit. I decided that night that I liked this man very much. A few days later Steib and I were sitting in the shade of the front porch where he lived, sipping Tom Collins drinks, and talking about Tesla.
The Beaver Boys
Springtime On The Chippewa
The Chippewa River flows through Mount Pleasant, Michigan, where I attended Central Michigan University in the late 1950's. The area is probably developed into costly housing units today, but when I was there, the river was a favorite playground, especially in the spring after a long cold winter of intense studies. I remember spending a sunny Saturday canoeing the river with a girl I was especially fond of. And I remember the parties. There was one special spot known as the stile, located at the end of a dirt road. Someone had erected a wooden stile, or stairway to make it easy to climb over a fence and giving us access to a vast grassy bank along the river.
The Chippewa River flows through Mount Pleasant, Michigan, where I attended Central Michigan University in the late 1950's. The area is probably developed into costly housing units today, but when I was there, the river was a favorite playground, especially in the spring after a long cold winter of intense studies. I remember spending a sunny Saturday canoeing the river with a girl I was especially fond of. And I remember the parties. There was one special spot known as the stile, located at the end of a dirt road. Someone had erected a wooden stile, or stairway to make it easy to climb over a fence and giving us access to a vast grassy bank along the river.
St. Patrick’s Day – Special Memories
St. Patrick's Day is not a national holiday but it might as well be. Everybody in America celebrates it. In fact, people all over the world celebrate it. And I am not sure why this is. My own Irish roots make it possible for me to join in the festivities without feeling as if I am trespassing on somebody else’s party. Not that I feel like celebrating. But there are some memories linked to this day that will always remain fixed in my thoughts.
St. Patrick's Day is not a national holiday but it might as well be. Everybody in America celebrates it. In fact, people all over the world celebrate it. And I am not sure why this is. My own Irish roots make it possible for me to join in the festivities without feeling as if I am trespassing on somebody else’s party. Not that I feel like celebrating. But there are some memories linked to this day that will always remain fixed in my thoughts.
A Memorable Easter Sunday
Because of Christian involvement in the ancient pagan rites of spring, Easter is, for me, a dark time of the year. Yet there is one Easter Sunday that I recall with vivid fondness. It might have been the day that I separated myself from the shadow of my mother's apron and became a man. I was recovering from a severe head injury from a traffic accident and was taking a year off from college. I took a job with an oil well servicing company headquartered in Mount Pleasant. The job was hard and dirty. Saturday night as we rolled up to the dog house with our rig, the boss met us with the news that he had an emergency job on a well about a hundred miles to our north. He assigned our truck to the task the next morning . . . Easter Sunday. That was the day our truck caught fire while hooked up to a flowing oil well.
Because of Christian involvement in the ancient pagan rites of spring, Easter is, for me, a dark time of the year. Yet there is one Easter Sunday that I recall with vivid fondness. It might have been the day that I separated myself from the shadow of my mother's apron and became a man. I was recovering from a severe head injury from a traffic accident and was taking a year off from college. I took a job with an oil well servicing company headquartered in Mount Pleasant. The job was hard and dirty. Saturday night as we rolled up to the dog house with our rig, the boss met us with the news that he had an emergency job on a well about a hundred miles to our north. He assigned our truck to the task the next morning . . . Easter Sunday. That was the day our truck caught fire while hooked up to a flowing oil well.
My Role As a Photo Journalist
The Speed Graphic was the standard camera for journalists in the field for many years; and for good reason. It was a magnificent camera, well constructed, and it rarely failed. The only drawback was its big size and the fact that it only shot two pictures in a slide pack. We had to always carry a heavy bag over the shoulder filled with more film packs, flash bulbs and spare batteries for the flash gun attached to the side of the camera. During my years as a bureau reporter at South Haven, Michigan, I did as much camera work as I did writing for my employer. Consequently, the camera led me into some interesting adventures. I carried it with me everywhere. It rode in the trunk of my car so was within easy reach whenever I came upon something unusual and that I thought might make a good news photograph.
The Speed Graphic was the standard camera for journalists in the field for many years; and for good reason. It was a magnificent camera, well constructed, and it rarely failed. The only drawback was its big size and the fact that it only shot two pictures in a slide pack. We had to always carry a heavy bag over the shoulder filled with more film packs, flash bulbs and spare batteries for the flash gun attached to the side of the camera. During my years as a bureau reporter at South Haven, Michigan, I did as much camera work as I did writing for my employer. Consequently, the camera led me into some interesting adventures. I carried it with me everywhere. It rode in the trunk of my car so was within easy reach whenever I came upon something unusual and that I thought might make a good news photograph.
Adventures As A Volunteer Fire Fighter
When working as a bureau reporter in South Haven, Michigan, I began giving glossy prints of fire scenes to the fire department as a courtesy and in appreciation for the department’s cooperation in allowing me to “get the story.” The chief, Les Olmstead, liked my pictures so much he coaxed me into becoming a volunteer fire fighter and regular photographer for the department. I accepted. My adventures as a volunteer fire fighter did not just involve taking pictures of burning buildings. Almost from the start I was involved in training and was actively fighting fires.
When working as a bureau reporter in South Haven, Michigan, I began giving glossy prints of fire scenes to the fire department as a courtesy and in appreciation for the department’s cooperation in allowing me to “get the story.” The chief, Les Olmstead, liked my pictures so much he coaxed me into becoming a volunteer fire fighter and regular photographer for the department. I accepted. My adventures as a volunteer fire fighter did not just involve taking pictures of burning buildings. Almost from the start I was involved in training and was actively fighting fires.
Living Among The Dead And The Dying
The newspaper I worked for at Benton Harbor, Michigan, in the early journalism years, used as much art as possible to tell the stories of major news events in our area. That meant publishing photographs of every local person killed in traffic accidents, drowning, shootings, and worst-of-all, the Vietnam War.
The newspaper I worked for at Benton Harbor, Michigan, in the early journalism years, used as much art as possible to tell the stories of major news events in our area. That meant publishing photographs of every local person killed in traffic accidents, drowning, shootings, and worst-of-all, the Vietnam War.
The Parachutist That Almost Didn’t Make It
There was some kind of air show occurring almost every year at the South Haven Airport. They were usually such gala events that as an area bureau news reporter I had to cover them. The family often came with me because they were fun. Among the kind of events held at the airport were parachute jumps. Jump clubs would occasionally gather to parachute down into the airport from high overhead. I attended one memorable show with my son Aaron at my side that almost turned into a disaster.
There was some kind of air show occurring almost every year at the South Haven Airport. They were usually such gala events that as an area bureau news reporter I had to cover them. The family often came with me because they were fun. Among the kind of events held at the airport were parachute jumps. Jump clubs would occasionally gather to parachute down into the airport from high overhead. I attended one memorable show with my son Aaron at my side that almost turned into a disaster.
When Fire Fighters Are Hindered By Politics
A few years back there was national anger and outrage after the South Fulton, Tennessee fire department stood by and watched a family’s house burn to the ground because it had not paid a $75 fee for fire protection. Unfortunately, the anger was aimed at the fire fighters when it was probably not something they wanted to do. The real culprits might well be found sitting quietly in their ivory towers within local government offices.
A few years back there was national anger and outrage after the South Fulton, Tennessee fire department stood by and watched a family’s house burn to the ground because it had not paid a $75 fee for fire protection. Unfortunately, the anger was aimed at the fire fighters when it was probably not something they wanted to do. The real culprits might well be found sitting quietly in their ivory towers within local government offices.
“Any Publicity Is Good Publicity”
It began with a police report that a black family had been hospitalized. Some of the children were unconscious and in critical condition after their home filled with carbon monoxide fumes from a leaking chimney pipe. It happened in the 1960's in South Haven, Michigan, when I was working there as a bureau reporter for a daily newspaper in Benton Harbor.
It began with a police report that a black family had been hospitalized. Some of the children were unconscious and in critical condition after their home filled with carbon monoxide fumes from a leaking chimney pipe. It happened in the 1960's in South Haven, Michigan, when I was working there as a bureau reporter for a daily newspaper in Benton Harbor.
Lost Town Of Singapore Michigan
When I worked as a South Haven bureau reporter for the former News-Palladium newspaper at Benton Harbor, Michigan, I met an elderly man living in the Douglas/Saugatuck area who had a strange story to tell. He said that in his youth he remembered a third lumber town that existed along the Lake Michigan shoreline, not far from the location of Douglas and Saugatuck, that still exists, but has been buried by shifting sand dunes. The story of Singapore has been well documented now, and is part of the local heritage. But at the time I met this old native and heard his story, the memory and almost all trace of the town was not only buried, but nearly forgotten.
When I worked as a South Haven bureau reporter for the former News-Palladium newspaper at Benton Harbor, Michigan, I met an elderly man living in the Douglas/Saugatuck area who had a strange story to tell. He said that in his youth he remembered a third lumber town that existed along the Lake Michigan shoreline, not far from the location of Douglas and Saugatuck, that still exists, but has been buried by shifting sand dunes. The story of Singapore has been well documented now, and is part of the local heritage. But at the time I met this old native and heard his story, the memory and almost all trace of the town was not only buried, but nearly forgotten.
Why Reporters Don’t Sit On Juries
In my years as a police and court news reporter I was only called once for jury duty because I knew too much about just about any case that went before a judge. Even civil cases sometimes caught my attention. When I was working in South Haven, I was corralled one day to make up a sixth member of a municipal court jury panel in the old municipal court that operated then. I just happened to be in City Hall and they asked me to fill in. It was a traffic case. I knew nothing about it and did not know the defendant, so I agreed. I thought it would be an interesting experience. I was not disappointed.
Devil Dog Stories Prevail In Real Life
There is something about the stories of "devil dogs" running at large in the forests that have a way of sending that proverbial chill up our spines. While few of us have ever seen such things, the stories are frightening because we all know that wild dogs can kill. There is, indeed, something eerily frightening about the very image of a pack of wild, black dogs charging at us. Imagine, too, that such animals have red glowing eyes, smoke and flame spewing from their mouths as they bound in our direction. Dogs can outrun any man, they will attack creatures much larger than they are, and they instinctively know how to go for the throat with their fangs and tear out the jugular. Dogs are both quick and powerful when they attack. This writer has had some odd experiences with dogs and dog packs that have left him somewhat shaken over the years.
There is something about the stories of "devil dogs" running at large in the forests that have a way of sending that proverbial chill up our spines. While few of us have ever seen such things, the stories are frightening because we all know that wild dogs can kill. There is, indeed, something eerily frightening about the very image of a pack of wild, black dogs charging at us. Imagine, too, that such animals have red glowing eyes, smoke and flame spewing from their mouths as they bound in our direction. Dogs can outrun any man, they will attack creatures much larger than they are, and they instinctively know how to go for the throat with their fangs and tear out the jugular. Dogs are both quick and powerful when they attack. This writer has had some odd experiences with dogs and dog packs that have left him somewhat shaken over the years.
Face to Face in Show Low
My Peculiar Alien/UFO Connection
When I opened my eyes they were standing but a few inches from my face. They were exactly as everyone said they would look; two Greys, one appearing about four feet in height, the other slightly taller. Both had thin almost emaciated bodies but sporting large oval heads. Their black beady eyes were staring directly into mine. While their appearance surprised me I do not remember feeling frightened or even shocked. It was not my first alien contact or my last, but for sure it was my most personal one. The moment they realized that I could see them, the two Greys just disappeared, not to be observed again.
When I opened my eyes they were standing but a few inches from my face. They were exactly as everyone said they would look; two Greys, one appearing about four feet in height, the other slightly taller. Both had thin almost emaciated bodies but sporting large oval heads. Their black beady eyes were staring directly into mine. While their appearance surprised me I do not remember feeling frightened or even shocked. It was not my first alien contact or my last, but for sure it was my most personal one. The moment they realized that I could see them, the two Greys just disappeared, not to be observed again.
Following Intuition Can Be The Correct Choice
Some years ago when my wife and I were living and working in South Haven, Michigan, I visited a person living in a large house that had been converted into several apartments. I noticed that the house, which needed some renovation, was advertised for sale and the price was very reasonable. I thought seriously of buying it. Because I was knee deep in several other projects at the time, and involved in the renovation of the house we were already living in, I decided against it. That house, which was located on the north side of the city and a stone’s throw from a sandy beach on Lake Michigan, no longer exists. Nor do any of the other houses on that block. In their place stands a fine Holiday Inn complex. Had I followed my instinct and purchased that house, I probably could have sold it within the next few years and turned a very nice prophet.
Some years ago when my wife and I were living and working in South Haven, Michigan, I visited a person living in a large house that had been converted into several apartments. I noticed that the house, which needed some renovation, was advertised for sale and the price was very reasonable. I thought seriously of buying it. Because I was knee deep in several other projects at the time, and involved in the renovation of the house we were already living in, I decided against it. That house, which was located on the north side of the city and a stone’s throw from a sandy beach on Lake Michigan, no longer exists. Nor do any of the other houses on that block. In their place stands a fine Holiday Inn complex. Had I followed my instinct and purchased that house, I probably could have sold it within the next few years and turned a very nice prophet.
The Police Crisis In America
The nation has been sliding toward a police state for a long time. I watched it happening during the years I spent reporting police news, covering major fires, murders, court trials and sometimes just riding around with the police on night patrol. There was a time when I had my own personal coffee cup hanging on a hook with the other cups at the Michigan State Police Post. I was given free access to the Sheriff’s Dispatcher’s radio room where I could read the nightly police and fire log. Nothing that the police did in the county escaped my attention. No reporter gets that kind of access to police records today
The nation has been sliding toward a police state for a long time. I watched it happening during the years I spent reporting police news, covering major fires, murders, court trials and sometimes just riding around with the police on night patrol. There was a time when I had my own personal coffee cup hanging on a hook with the other cups at the Michigan State Police Post. I was given free access to the Sheriff’s Dispatcher’s radio room where I could read the nightly police and fire log. Nothing that the police did in the county escaped my attention. No reporter gets that kind of access to police records today
Living With Michigan Winters
One of the winter snow pictures I came upon reminded me of a personal incident experienced during my high school days in Michigan’s Thumb. It depicts a school bus buried in a snow bank. While much of the nation is now dealing with radical weather patterns, including intense winter storms, we who lived along the shores of the Great Lakes were always familiar with lake effect snow storms. We knew how to deal with them most of the time.
One of the winter snow pictures I came upon reminded me of a personal incident experienced during my high school days in Michigan’s Thumb. It depicts a school bus buried in a snow bank. While much of the nation is now dealing with radical weather patterns, including intense winter storms, we who lived along the shores of the Great Lakes were always familiar with lake effect snow storms. We knew how to deal with them most of the time.
Phillips
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Cassidy
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Tracking The Outlaw Butch Cassidy
Sometime around 1978, while working as a bureau reporter in Sanilac County, Michigan, Harry Longabaugh entered my office with a request for help researching a book he was writing. He heard I was a local historian and wanted me to help research the origins of a young man named Robert LeRoy Parker, an orphan that he believed was raised by a family named Phillips living in our area in about 1870. Longabaugh said he had reason to believe that Parker, who later became the noted western outlaw Butch Cassidy, was possibly born and raised in Sanilac County. Longabaugh was in Sandusky, the county seat, to see if the story might have been true.
Sometime around 1978, while working as a bureau reporter in Sanilac County, Michigan, Harry Longabaugh entered my office with a request for help researching a book he was writing. He heard I was a local historian and wanted me to help research the origins of a young man named Robert LeRoy Parker, an orphan that he believed was raised by a family named Phillips living in our area in about 1870. Longabaugh said he had reason to believe that Parker, who later became the noted western outlaw Butch Cassidy, was possibly born and raised in Sanilac County. Longabaugh was in Sandusky, the county seat, to see if the story might have been true.
Fondly Remembering Christmas With The Family
Lest readers think of this writer as the classic Ebenezer Scrooge right out of a Dickens novel, I thought perhaps I should offer some thoughts about some of the fond memories our family shared when our children were small and Christmas was a really cheery holiday at our house. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the crass commercialization of the holiday, and the extreme gluttony it appears to generate, I would have to say that the mysterious sparks of cheerfulness expressed by the neighbors and friends was always noticed. I used to wonder why we couldn’t extend that same kind of glowing happiness and good will to one another to every day of the year instead of just those few days preceding the big event. And that, of course, was the opening of glittering boxes full of surprise gifts piled under a lighted evergreen tree in our living rooms.
Lest readers think of this writer as the classic Ebenezer Scrooge right out of a Dickens novel, I thought perhaps I should offer some thoughts about some of the fond memories our family shared when our children were small and Christmas was a really cheery holiday at our house. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the crass commercialization of the holiday, and the extreme gluttony it appears to generate, I would have to say that the mysterious sparks of cheerfulness expressed by the neighbors and friends was always noticed. I used to wonder why we couldn’t extend that same kind of glowing happiness and good will to one another to every day of the year instead of just those few days preceding the big event. And that, of course, was the opening of glittering boxes full of surprise gifts piled under a lighted evergreen tree in our living rooms.
The Day We Saved Our Neighborhood
Sandusky, where I lived and worked, hired a professional planner to help draft the city’s master plan. One night I attended a commission meeting when this man unveiled the proposed final plan for commission approval. Once accepted by the commission it was to go before the City Council for final approval. After that it would become the official master plan for the city. I was shocked at what this document contained. While it identified existing industrial properties, residential properties and commercial properties, it also marked the houses in the neighborhood where I lived for a zoning change from residential to industrial. The planner reasoned that these were homes occupied by moderate to low income families and were not as good a tax base as they could be for the city. He felt they could be sacrificed for new industrial development, thus raising the town’s property tax revenues substantially. I couldn't let them get away with that.
Sandusky, where I lived and worked, hired a professional planner to help draft the city’s master plan. One night I attended a commission meeting when this man unveiled the proposed final plan for commission approval. Once accepted by the commission it was to go before the City Council for final approval. After that it would become the official master plan for the city. I was shocked at what this document contained. While it identified existing industrial properties, residential properties and commercial properties, it also marked the houses in the neighborhood where I lived for a zoning change from residential to industrial. The planner reasoned that these were homes occupied by moderate to low income families and were not as good a tax base as they could be for the city. He felt they could be sacrificed for new industrial development, thus raising the town’s property tax revenues substantially. I couldn't let them get away with that.
The Michigan PBB Crisis
Dairy farming is a major part of the agriculture industry throughout the Thumb Area of Michigan. It was not long after I began reporting the news in Sanilac County that dairy farmers began dealing with sick and dying cattle. The phenomenon was occurring on nearly all of the large dairy farms in Michigan and veterinarians were mystified. Eventually it was discovered that workers at Michigan Chemical Corporation in St. Louis, Michigan, accidentally mixed the chemical polybrominated biphenyl (PBB), a toxic fire retardant, with the cattle feed that was distributed by the Michigan Farm Bureau to dairy operations throughout the state. By the time this was discovered, an estimated nine million state residents had consumed contaminated meat and milk for at least a year. It was a disaster.
Dairy farming is a major part of the agriculture industry throughout the Thumb Area of Michigan. It was not long after I began reporting the news in Sanilac County that dairy farmers began dealing with sick and dying cattle. The phenomenon was occurring on nearly all of the large dairy farms in Michigan and veterinarians were mystified. Eventually it was discovered that workers at Michigan Chemical Corporation in St. Louis, Michigan, accidentally mixed the chemical polybrominated biphenyl (PBB), a toxic fire retardant, with the cattle feed that was distributed by the Michigan Farm Bureau to dairy operations throughout the state. By the time this was discovered, an estimated nine million state residents had consumed contaminated meat and milk for at least a year. It was a disaster.
The Almost Unknown Genius of Vernon A. Trigger
During the years that I worked as a bureau reporter for The Times Herald, a daily newspaper published at Port Huron, Michigan, I met and attempted to write a featured story about Vernon A. Trigger, an eccentric retired inventor/engineer living on the Lake Huron coast near Forestville. Trigger’s story was so remarkable and so involved that I spent more than one session with him, getting all of the information I needed for the story. Then after the piece was written and filed, the lame-brain state editor I was working under at the time, refused to believe it and would not publish it. Thus the Trigger story remains unknown to this day to the people who probably knew him best in his final years.
During the years that I worked as a bureau reporter for The Times Herald, a daily newspaper published at Port Huron, Michigan, I met and attempted to write a featured story about Vernon A. Trigger, an eccentric retired inventor/engineer living on the Lake Huron coast near Forestville. Trigger’s story was so remarkable and so involved that I spent more than one session with him, getting all of the information I needed for the story. Then after the piece was written and filed, the lame-brain state editor I was working under at the time, refused to believe it and would not publish it. Thus the Trigger story remains unknown to this day to the people who probably knew him best in his final years.
The Ghost Of Minnie Quay
Some years back while working as a bureau reporter for the Times Herald I caused somewhat of a sensation when I chanced upon a genuine ghost story at a place called Forester. Forester has been an unincorporated community along the Lake Huron coast in Sanilac County, about 60 miles north of Port Huron. The place once knew a bit of glory as a major lumber port that boasted a general store, a hotel, a tavern, post office church and cluster of private homes. Possibly because I was getting a reputation as a local historical researcher and writer, I received a telephone call one day from a Mrs. Harry Shaw, an elderly widow and the only surviving descendant of the family of James and Mary Ann Quay. She said she had a ghost story she wanted to share. It turned out to be a dozy.
Some years back while working as a bureau reporter for the Times Herald I caused somewhat of a sensation when I chanced upon a genuine ghost story at a place called Forester. Forester has been an unincorporated community along the Lake Huron coast in Sanilac County, about 60 miles north of Port Huron. The place once knew a bit of glory as a major lumber port that boasted a general store, a hotel, a tavern, post office church and cluster of private homes. Possibly because I was getting a reputation as a local historical researcher and writer, I received a telephone call one day from a Mrs. Harry Shaw, an elderly widow and the only surviving descendant of the family of James and Mary Ann Quay. She said she had a ghost story she wanted to share. It turned out to be a dozy.
The Hale Road Haunting
In 1978 I was refined on my back for months after suffering a broken knee cap in a lumbering accident. While recovering I spent time ravaging through books from the local library. Among the books I read was The Amityville Horror, a story about a New England house where events became so strange the occupants were forced to move. While reading this book I began to compare some of the strange events linked to the Amityville house with goings on in our own home. Because I was always on the run, never taking time to stop and really look at my surroundings, I missed the fact that we had something supernatural happening right under our noses.
In 1978 I was refined on my back for months after suffering a broken knee cap in a lumbering accident. While recovering I spent time ravaging through books from the local library. Among the books I read was The Amityville Horror, a story about a New England house where events became so strange the occupants were forced to move. While reading this book I began to compare some of the strange events linked to the Amityville house with goings on in our own home. Because I was always on the run, never taking time to stop and really look at my surroundings, I missed the fact that we had something supernatural happening right under our noses.
The Mysterious Bug Bites
It was our first spring at a home we bought on Hale Road near Sandusky, Michigan. After it got warm enough, Doris and I began raising the windows to our downstairs bedroom and letting the cool night air in. We had a habit of reading before we went to sleep, so we had reading lights on night stands on both sides of our bed. It was during this time that we started getting strange bites that not only itched but they swelled up and stayed around a few days. It was our first experience with No-see-ems, a biting insect so small we really couldn't see them.
It was our first spring at a home we bought on Hale Road near Sandusky, Michigan. After it got warm enough, Doris and I began raising the windows to our downstairs bedroom and letting the cool night air in. We had a habit of reading before we went to sleep, so we had reading lights on night stands on both sides of our bed. It was during this time that we started getting strange bites that not only itched but they swelled up and stayed around a few days. It was our first experience with No-see-ems, a biting insect so small we really couldn't see them.
The Worst Car Ever Built
There were two used-car dealerships operating on vacant lots between my Sanilac County news bureau office and the county courthouse. I suppose it was because I walked past them several times a day that I was inspired to buy that used 1970’s vintage Plymouth Horizon. The salesman, whose name I cannot recall but a man I considered a good friend at the time, tried to discourage me from buying the car. He liked General Motors products and sneered at this particular vehicle. He called it a “Mopar,” a promotional name Chrysler was using for its products at the time. After buying the car I could not fault the dealer for trying to talk me out of it. The car was a lemon and I think he knew it. Its color was even yellow.
There were two used-car dealerships operating on vacant lots between my Sanilac County news bureau office and the county courthouse. I suppose it was because I walked past them several times a day that I was inspired to buy that used 1970’s vintage Plymouth Horizon. The salesman, whose name I cannot recall but a man I considered a good friend at the time, tried to discourage me from buying the car. He liked General Motors products and sneered at this particular vehicle. He called it a “Mopar,” a promotional name Chrysler was using for its products at the time. After buying the car I could not fault the dealer for trying to talk me out of it. The car was a lemon and I think he knew it. Its color was even yellow.
Interview With Admiral John McCrea
Back when we still had a few veterans of World War I living in Sanilac County the director of the county’s Veteran’s Affairs office decided to hold a special dinner to honor this select group of American Heros. I was working on an advance news story and acquired a list of all of the names of the men and women on the honors list. That is when I discovered a surviving naval admiral among them. His name was Admiral John McCrea, a native of Marlette, Michigan who was now in his nineties and living somewhere in or around Boston. This led to one of the best interviews I ever had in my years as a journalist.
Back when we still had a few veterans of World War I living in Sanilac County the director of the county’s Veteran’s Affairs office decided to hold a special dinner to honor this select group of American Heros. I was working on an advance news story and acquired a list of all of the names of the men and women on the honors list. That is when I discovered a surviving naval admiral among them. His name was Admiral John McCrea, a native of Marlette, Michigan who was now in his nineties and living somewhere in or around Boston. This led to one of the best interviews I ever had in my years as a journalist.
Haunted Houses Are Everywhere
The new rage among realtors in selling haunted houses may seem peculiar. But in this new somewhat insane world, people are demanding strange and exotic things. Why wouldn’t they be interested in owning and sharing a house with spirits of the past? What surprises me is that buyers are being goaded into paying extra to purchase a home with ghosts. In my years of reporting and because of the hobby my wife and I shared, of buying and restoring old homes, I can report from personal experience that most older homes are usually haunted.
The new rage among realtors in selling haunted houses may seem peculiar. But in this new somewhat insane world, people are demanding strange and exotic things. Why wouldn’t they be interested in owning and sharing a house with spirits of the past? What surprises me is that buyers are being goaded into paying extra to purchase a home with ghosts. In my years of reporting and because of the hobby my wife and I shared, of buying and restoring old homes, I can report from personal experience that most older homes are usually haunted.
Richard Nixon’s Last Hurrah
Sanilac County was a solid Republican stronghold when I was reporting there. I think it still is. In 1974, during the heat of the Watergate Scandal, President Richard M. Nixon came to our town under strange and unexpected circumstances and I was there when it happened. It may have been Nixon’s last public appearance before his resignation in August that same year.
Sanilac County was a solid Republican stronghold when I was reporting there. I think it still is. In 1974, during the heat of the Watergate Scandal, President Richard M. Nixon came to our town under strange and unexpected circumstances and I was there when it happened. It may have been Nixon’s last public appearance before his resignation in August that same year.
The Mike Lucas Affair
Mike Lucas walked in my news bureau office in Sanilac County one day, plopped down in the chair in front of my desk, introduced himself, and said he needed help. He explained that he was employed by the Community Mental Health Service, had been involved in trying to organize a union among workers, and was now fighting to keep his job. He wanted me to write an expose and tell everybody what was going on. Thus began one of the biggest and most sensational stories I was ever involved in during all of my years as a news reporter.
Mike Lucas walked in my news bureau office in Sanilac County one day, plopped down in the chair in front of my desk, introduced himself, and said he needed help. He explained that he was employed by the Community Mental Health Service, had been involved in trying to organize a union among workers, and was now fighting to keep his job. He wanted me to write an expose and tell everybody what was going on. Thus began one of the biggest and most sensational stories I was ever involved in during all of my years as a news reporter.
The Santa Claus
His real name was Donald Cramer but he was better known as Santa Claus. He lived in the little community of Peck, Michigan, located about 100 miles north of Detroit in the heart of Sanilac County where I was working as a bureau news reporter. Don was the father of a large family and it was obvious that he really liked children. He was a somewhat stocky man; a retired General Motors employee back in the days when Detroit autoworkers enjoyed good retirement programs. One year Don was hired by the Chamber of Commerce to play Santa Claus on the weekends. I think he used a false white beard for the role that first season. They set him up in a little portable building in Sandusky, the county seat, in the large open yard in front of the courthouse. He got such a kick out of being Santa Claus that season, Don grew a full white beard and he returned the next year wearing the classic tiny steel-rimmed glasses which made him look like the Norman Rockwell version of the real thing. I think the children thought he was the real thing. I think Don began thinking he was the real Santa.
His real name was Donald Cramer but he was better known as Santa Claus. He lived in the little community of Peck, Michigan, located about 100 miles north of Detroit in the heart of Sanilac County where I was working as a bureau news reporter. Don was the father of a large family and it was obvious that he really liked children. He was a somewhat stocky man; a retired General Motors employee back in the days when Detroit autoworkers enjoyed good retirement programs. One year Don was hired by the Chamber of Commerce to play Santa Claus on the weekends. I think he used a false white beard for the role that first season. They set him up in a little portable building in Sandusky, the county seat, in the large open yard in front of the courthouse. He got such a kick out of being Santa Claus that season, Don grew a full white beard and he returned the next year wearing the classic tiny steel-rimmed glasses which made him look like the Norman Rockwell version of the real thing. I think the children thought he was the real thing. I think Don began thinking he was the real Santa.
The Strange SLIder Phenomenon
If she had lived a few hundred years earlier I believe my wife Doris might have been declared a witch. There was no doubt that she had interesting superhuman powers that amazed me during the years that we shared on this earth. She could communicate with the dead and with entities from other dimensions, she was such an amazing psychic that she sometimes answered telephones before they rang, or answered questions in my mind before I asked them. She could skillfully divine for water. She predicted her own death about two years before she died. I think she also was a SLIder. No, that’s not a typographical error. The phrase SLI is an acronym for the phrase “Street Lamp Interference Data Exchange.” Thus a SLIder is a person that causes street lights to go out when they are around.
If she had lived a few hundred years earlier I believe my wife Doris might have been declared a witch. There was no doubt that she had interesting superhuman powers that amazed me during the years that we shared on this earth. She could communicate with the dead and with entities from other dimensions, she was such an amazing psychic that she sometimes answered telephones before they rang, or answered questions in my mind before I asked them. She could skillfully divine for water. She predicted her own death about two years before she died. I think she also was a SLIder. No, that’s not a typographical error. The phrase SLI is an acronym for the phrase “Street Lamp Interference Data Exchange.” Thus a SLIder is a person that causes street lights to go out when they are around.
The Indefatigable Dorothea Logan
White-haired, slightly bent from early stages of osteoporosis, but ageless in her quest for life, Dorothea Logan was among the first people I met when I opened a news bureau at South Haven, Michigan. She became a close and valuable friend and companion to both Doris and me during our years in that community. And like most of the people I loved and grew close to, Dorothea was an eccentric non-conformist. She could afford to be. She was the daughter of a noted Chicago brain surgeon who left her an unknown amount of wealth so she was free to live on a large country estate on the shore of Lake Michigan, just south of town.
White-haired, slightly bent from early stages of osteoporosis, but ageless in her quest for life, Dorothea Logan was among the first people I met when I opened a news bureau at South Haven, Michigan. She became a close and valuable friend and companion to both Doris and me during our years in that community. And like most of the people I loved and grew close to, Dorothea was an eccentric non-conformist. She could afford to be. She was the daughter of a noted Chicago brain surgeon who left her an unknown amount of wealth so she was free to live on a large country estate on the shore of Lake Michigan, just south of town.
Fake Monster In The Lake
A news story some years ago about a Saline, Michigan man that created a mechanical beast to imitate the famed Loch Ness Monster in a local lake as part of a local Celtic Festival reminded me of a similar creation some years back on the Western side of the state. I stumbled on the story when I was a reporter working for the Kalamazoo Gazette, in Kalamazoo, a city that joined Portage Township and Portage Lake. I don’t recall his name or all of the details. As I remember it, an elderly gentleman who had lived all of his life on Portage Lake, told his story after years of fooling the people in the area with his cleverly concocted ruse.
A news story some years ago about a Saline, Michigan man that created a mechanical beast to imitate the famed Loch Ness Monster in a local lake as part of a local Celtic Festival reminded me of a similar creation some years back on the Western side of the state. I stumbled on the story when I was a reporter working for the Kalamazoo Gazette, in Kalamazoo, a city that joined Portage Township and Portage Lake. I don’t recall his name or all of the details. As I remember it, an elderly gentleman who had lived all of his life on Portage Lake, told his story after years of fooling the people in the area with his cleverly concocted ruse.
It Looked Like A Lemon
Duped Into Buying A Compact Car
The first alarm of a world oil shortage struck the United States in 1973 after members of the Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) established an oil embargo. It seems they were reacting to the U.S. support of the Israeli military in what is remembered as the Yom Kippur war against Egypt and Syria. That was the year Americans first became aware of just how dependent we had become to imported oil products from the Middle East. And it was the last time I think I believed what my government and the media was telling us.
The first alarm of a world oil shortage struck the United States in 1973 after members of the Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) established an oil embargo. It seems they were reacting to the U.S. support of the Israeli military in what is remembered as the Yom Kippur war against Egypt and Syria. That was the year Americans first became aware of just how dependent we had become to imported oil products from the Middle East. And it was the last time I think I believed what my government and the media was telling us.
Knowing Judge James Lincoln
Among the outstanding characters I became acquainted with over the years is Judge James Lincoln, a man born and raised in my hometown of Harbor Beach, Michigan, who went on to have a dynamic impact on Michigan and especially the City of Detroit.
Among the outstanding characters I became acquainted with over the years is Judge James Lincoln, a man born and raised in my hometown of Harbor Beach, Michigan, who went on to have a dynamic impact on Michigan and especially the City of Detroit.
Mystery Murder At Peck
During a strange period when a budget crunch caused the Sanilac County Board of Commissioners to lay off all of the Sheriff’s road patrol, a terrible murder occurred in Peck, a normally quiet little Michigan village located a few miles south of where I worked as a county bureau reporter. I covered many murders during my years as a police reporter but this one stood out. That is because the police couldn't solve it.
During a strange period when a budget crunch caused the Sanilac County Board of Commissioners to lay off all of the Sheriff’s road patrol, a terrible murder occurred in Peck, a normally quiet little Michigan village located a few miles south of where I worked as a county bureau reporter. I covered many murders during my years as a police reporter but this one stood out. That is because the police couldn't solve it.
A Barn Burning Event
Our barn on the Hale Road property we once owned in Michigan was a massive structure. It had various parts to it, with the large main doors opening to the traditional hay mows on both sides of the main runway. We were allowing our neighbor to store his self-propelled combine there, and the main mow was filled with his hay. The other side was filled with miscellaneous farm-type things that were mostly there when we bought the property. This included steel fence posts, fence wire, some bee hives and lumber. We lost that barn and everything in it in a fire one spring Saturday that destroyed many of our fruit trees, almost burned my pickup which was parked within a few feet, almost killed our daughter Jennifer who was barely walking at the time, and if the local volunteer fire department hadn’t been on the job as fast as it was, we believe we might also have lost our house. It was a disaster.
Our barn on the Hale Road property we once owned in Michigan was a massive structure. It had various parts to it, with the large main doors opening to the traditional hay mows on both sides of the main runway. We were allowing our neighbor to store his self-propelled combine there, and the main mow was filled with his hay. The other side was filled with miscellaneous farm-type things that were mostly there when we bought the property. This included steel fence posts, fence wire, some bee hives and lumber. We lost that barn and everything in it in a fire one spring Saturday that destroyed many of our fruit trees, almost burned my pickup which was parked within a few feet, almost killed our daughter Jennifer who was barely walking at the time, and if the local volunteer fire department hadn’t been on the job as fast as it was, we believe we might also have lost our house. It was a disaster.
Our Michigan Compact House
Seeking Low-Cost Compact Homes
When the housing bubble burst in 2008 and people began losing their jobs and high-cost homes all across the nation, it was inevitable that something new and radical had to be done. Virtually every city is now dealing with homelessness. Even people that go to work every day come home nightly to tent cities on the outskirts of town. There is a need for compact and low-cost housing. My wife and I once experimented with a "mother-in-law" two-room house in rural Michigan and made it into a comfortable home.
When the housing bubble burst in 2008 and people began losing their jobs and high-cost homes all across the nation, it was inevitable that something new and radical had to be done. Virtually every city is now dealing with homelessness. Even people that go to work every day come home nightly to tent cities on the outskirts of town. There is a need for compact and low-cost housing. My wife and I once experimented with a "mother-in-law" two-room house in rural Michigan and made it into a comfortable home.
Strange Association With Archie Dorman
There is a story among the ancients that we all come to Earth on a planned mission and that we choose our own names. The names are perhaps the only key to our real identity. The man that helped tear us away from the old cult of Christianity and steer us on a new spiritual path had a very simple name that made his identity clear. The name was Archie Dorman. Looking back at that moment in our past, I realize that he was, indeed, a doorman standing at the arch. His job was to open the door and invite us in.
There is a story among the ancients that we all come to Earth on a planned mission and that we choose our own names. The names are perhaps the only key to our real identity. The man that helped tear us away from the old cult of Christianity and steer us on a new spiritual path had a very simple name that made his identity clear. The name was Archie Dorman. Looking back at that moment in our past, I realize that he was, indeed, a doorman standing at the arch. His job was to open the door and invite us in.
The Spirit in George Ferguson's Head
You couldn't find a more common or more likable man that George Ferguson. Saddled with only a primary school education, George was a heavy duty mechanic who traveled around repairing big construction equipment. A pure blooded Scotsman, he liked to show his family coat of arms and attend Scottish rites in the area, dressed in the family colors. He had his own kilt and Scottish dress, which he enjoyed modeling it whenever he had a willing subject. George was an unlikely candidate for the odd spiritual thing that happened to him and the heavy burden it placed on his shoulders. Ferguson described the first contact as a voice. The first few times it happened, he said he dismissed it as hallucinations. But the voices returned again and again. After a while George said he started taking them seriously, and listening to what they had to say. He began to realize that there was more than one voice.
You couldn't find a more common or more likable man that George Ferguson. Saddled with only a primary school education, George was a heavy duty mechanic who traveled around repairing big construction equipment. A pure blooded Scotsman, he liked to show his family coat of arms and attend Scottish rites in the area, dressed in the family colors. He had his own kilt and Scottish dress, which he enjoyed modeling it whenever he had a willing subject. George was an unlikely candidate for the odd spiritual thing that happened to him and the heavy burden it placed on his shoulders. Ferguson described the first contact as a voice. The first few times it happened, he said he dismissed it as hallucinations. But the voices returned again and again. After a while George said he started taking them seriously, and listening to what they had to say. He began to realize that there was more than one voice.
The Day We Picketed A Store
We still actively celebrated Christmas when this event happened. My wife Doris and I were living in our compact little house, and because she loved to cook, I chose a special gift that I thought was made to order for our tiny kitchen. It was a multi-task appliance that mixed, chopped, blended and performed many tasks with attachments to one power unit. It seemed like a good idea. Doris thought she was going to really like the appliance until she plugged it in. It was defective. The motor would not run. I returned the whole package to the store in Caro where it had been purchased, expecting to get an exchange. Instead of that, the woman that owned and operated the store said she would send the defective motor into the company that manufactured it and try to get it repaired. Weeks passed and winter moved into spring and my wife’s Christmas gift was still on hold. That spring I gave the store an ultimatum. When there was no response, we picketed the store and surprisingly helped put it out of business.
We still actively celebrated Christmas when this event happened. My wife Doris and I were living in our compact little house, and because she loved to cook, I chose a special gift that I thought was made to order for our tiny kitchen. It was a multi-task appliance that mixed, chopped, blended and performed many tasks with attachments to one power unit. It seemed like a good idea. Doris thought she was going to really like the appliance until she plugged it in. It was defective. The motor would not run. I returned the whole package to the store in Caro where it had been purchased, expecting to get an exchange. Instead of that, the woman that owned and operated the store said she would send the defective motor into the company that manufactured it and try to get it repaired. Weeks passed and winter moved into spring and my wife’s Christmas gift was still on hold. That spring I gave the store an ultimatum. When there was no response, we picketed the store and surprisingly helped put it out of business.
Driving A Dangerous Road
For a time my wife and I were forced to work in towns located about 60 miles apart and there was a need for one of us to commute. We moved into a house closer to my wife’s job. Our daughter, Jennifer, who was still enrolled in a private school in the town where I worked, traveled with me on a daily 40-mile-long trip between our home on Deckerville Road, near Cass City, to Sandusky, Michigan.
For a time my wife and I were forced to work in towns located about 60 miles apart and there was a need for one of us to commute. We moved into a house closer to my wife’s job. Our daughter, Jennifer, who was still enrolled in a private school in the town where I worked, traveled with me on a daily 40-mile-long trip between our home on Deckerville Road, near Cass City, to Sandusky, Michigan.
Observing A Field Of Vultures
It was a key moment in our lives, just when my wife, Doris and I were in the process of making serious choices in the spiritual path we were taking, that we saw the vultures. There were hundreds of them all strangely gathered in a field located about a quarter of a mile from the Michigan farm where I grew up. Was there a personal spiritual message in what we saw that day?
It was a key moment in our lives, just when my wife, Doris and I were in the process of making serious choices in the spiritual path we were taking, that we saw the vultures. There were hundreds of them all strangely gathered in a field located about a quarter of a mile from the Michigan farm where I grew up. Was there a personal spiritual message in what we saw that day?
"Mom. . . Dad. . . I Wrecked the Car!"
Many parents have heard these fearsome words. Many others were not as lucky as we to have their child return home to speak them. In retrospect, how glad we are that our teenage daughter Jennifer stood that morning at our bedroom door, somewhat shaken but all in one piece, to tell us the story. What happened to Jennifer that morning, however, turned out to be a mystery that neither we, nor the sheriff's deputy who took the report, could solve. I must add that there were parts to this mystery that the police never heard about.
Many parents have heard these fearsome words. Many others were not as lucky as we to have their child return home to speak them. In retrospect, how glad we are that our teenage daughter Jennifer stood that morning at our bedroom door, somewhat shaken but all in one piece, to tell us the story. What happened to Jennifer that morning, however, turned out to be a mystery that neither we, nor the sheriff's deputy who took the report, could solve. I must add that there were parts to this mystery that the police never heard about.
Using The Ouija Board
I never had much luck using a Ouija board. Whatever the reason, the instrument of communication . . . be it a button or some other personal item . . . never moved under my fingers. But when my late wife Doris put her hand on the board, the spirits seemed to move her. Now that she has joined the spirit world, I wish I could use the board to communicate with Doris. She used it to talk to dead relatives and took comfort when on her death bed that she believed her brother and father were both on the other side, waiting for her. They told her that they would be there.
I never had much luck using a Ouija board. Whatever the reason, the instrument of communication . . . be it a button or some other personal item . . . never moved under my fingers. But when my late wife Doris put her hand on the board, the spirits seemed to move her. Now that she has joined the spirit world, I wish I could use the board to communicate with Doris. She used it to talk to dead relatives and took comfort when on her death bed that she believed her brother and father were both on the other side, waiting for her. They told her that they would be there.
Observing the Death of American Newspapers
In the forty plus years I spent as a journalist for newspapers in Michigan and Arizona I worked for some exceptional editors. But there were a couple of bad ones as well. Looking back I now realize I was lucky enough to have entered the profession during a "golden age" of American journalism, but remained there long enough to watch it decline to what it has become today.
In the forty plus years I spent as a journalist for newspapers in Michigan and Arizona I worked for some exceptional editors. But there were a couple of bad ones as well. Looking back I now realize I was lucky enough to have entered the profession during a "golden age" of American journalism, but remained there long enough to watch it decline to what it has become today.
Remembering Raymond Begay
I recently learned of the death of an old friend, Raymond Begay, who kindly took my wife and me into his home during the winter of 1995-96 after we found ourselves homeless and stranded in Arizona.
We sold our Michigan home and moved to Arizona on a strange spiritual quest in the summer and fall of 95 after Doris was offered a job in a government hospital on the Navajo Reservation. She also was promised a home for us to live in. Between the time she was offered the job and we arrived a few weeks later, President Bill Clinton froze all new government hires because of a legislative budget battle. We ended up stranded in Holbrook, a small town along I-40 at the south edge of the reservation. We unloaded our personal things in a rented storage locker and moved into a run-down motel on Old Highway 66 where we hung our hats to wait for our situation to change. Other people were coming and going from that motel. Among our neighbors that fall were Raymond and Elfrieda Begay.
I recently learned of the death of an old friend, Raymond Begay, who kindly took my wife and me into his home during the winter of 1995-96 after we found ourselves homeless and stranded in Arizona.
We sold our Michigan home and moved to Arizona on a strange spiritual quest in the summer and fall of 95 after Doris was offered a job in a government hospital on the Navajo Reservation. She also was promised a home for us to live in. Between the time she was offered the job and we arrived a few weeks later, President Bill Clinton froze all new government hires because of a legislative budget battle. We ended up stranded in Holbrook, a small town along I-40 at the south edge of the reservation. We unloaded our personal things in a rented storage locker and moved into a run-down motel on Old Highway 66 where we hung our hats to wait for our situation to change. Other people were coming and going from that motel. Among our neighbors that fall were Raymond and Elfrieda Begay.
The Snake Stick
Before leaving Michigan for Arizona in 1995, my wife acquired an intricately carved wooden stick carefully shaped and painted to look like a diamond-back rattlesnake. It was a beautiful piece of art and we paid a good deal of money to have it. The man who sold it to her, who I now think of as a snake oil salesman of the worst kind, charmed Doris into thinking she needed the piece of art for a special ritual that was to occur on the Hopi reservation after our arrival. He told her that she needed to give it as a gift to a powerful tribal leader. Once doing this, he said she would be well received by the Indians. That snake had an effect on the Arizona Indians all right, but it did not happen the way we expected.
Before leaving Michigan for Arizona in 1995, my wife acquired an intricately carved wooden stick carefully shaped and painted to look like a diamond-back rattlesnake. It was a beautiful piece of art and we paid a good deal of money to have it. The man who sold it to her, who I now think of as a snake oil salesman of the worst kind, charmed Doris into thinking she needed the piece of art for a special ritual that was to occur on the Hopi reservation after our arrival. He told her that she needed to give it as a gift to a powerful tribal leader. Once doing this, he said she would be well received by the Indians. That snake had an effect on the Arizona Indians all right, but it did not happen the way we expected.
The Healing Dance of the Ye'ii Bi' cheii
It was during the winter of 1995-96 that my wife Doris and I lived with a Navajo medicine man and his wife on the Navajo reservation in northeast Arizona. We came to learn about the culture and experience the ways of the people on the reservation. We were well received by our hosts and treated to many strange and memorable experiences. One night we had the privilege of attending a dance of the Ye’ii Bi’cheii (pronounced Yea-Bee-Jay). It was a strange ritual carried out by an intricate web of dancers and chanters who worked to heal two men who were going deaf.
It was during the winter of 1995-96 that my wife Doris and I lived with a Navajo medicine man and his wife on the Navajo reservation in northeast Arizona. We came to learn about the culture and experience the ways of the people on the reservation. We were well received by our hosts and treated to many strange and memorable experiences. One night we had the privilege of attending a dance of the Ye’ii Bi’cheii (pronounced Yea-Bee-Jay). It was a strange ritual carried out by an intricate web of dancers and chanters who worked to heal two men who were going deaf.
Tracking The Navajo Hex
During our winter with Raymond and Elfrieda Begay on the Navajo Reservation, some strange events occurred that have yet to be told. One was an unexplained curse that befell the Begays and caused us all several hours of anxiety until we tracked it down. It began one night when my wife and I were traveling with Elfrieda across one of the bumpy, dusty dirt roads leading from Greasewood to the Begay home in the wilds of Northeast Arizona. The headlights of my Chevrolet picked up the image of an animal crossing the road far ahead of us. Elfrieda excitedly demanded that I stop the car. She said it was a coyote that had crossed our path, which she believed was a foreboding message that something very bad was about to happen to someone in the car. Thus began a strange weekend of tracking a mysterious hex placed on the family.
During our winter with Raymond and Elfrieda Begay on the Navajo Reservation, some strange events occurred that have yet to be told. One was an unexplained curse that befell the Begays and caused us all several hours of anxiety until we tracked it down. It began one night when my wife and I were traveling with Elfrieda across one of the bumpy, dusty dirt roads leading from Greasewood to the Begay home in the wilds of Northeast Arizona. The headlights of my Chevrolet picked up the image of an animal crossing the road far ahead of us. Elfrieda excitedly demanded that I stop the car. She said it was a coyote that had crossed our path, which she believed was a foreboding message that something very bad was about to happen to someone in the car. Thus began a strange weekend of tracking a mysterious hex placed on the family.
Rods - Another Unexplained Mystery
We first became aware of rods when we lived in Arizona. I think that's because the air was still clear there and after living for years under the polluted skies of Michigan, we fell in love with things over our heads all over again. We spent a wonderful three years, from 1996-98 in the high desert regions of Northwestern and Midwestern Arizona. During that time we marveled at two passing comets, a full eclipse of the moon, unusual planet alignments, and a variety of other anomalies, including an examination of some ultra-bright "stars" that twinkled a little too brightly. We discovered they were satellites circling the skies over our heads. We were amazed that we could see the Milky Way again. A friend brought the rods to our attention.
We first became aware of rods when we lived in Arizona. I think that's because the air was still clear there and after living for years under the polluted skies of Michigan, we fell in love with things over our heads all over again. We spent a wonderful three years, from 1996-98 in the high desert regions of Northwestern and Midwestern Arizona. During that time we marveled at two passing comets, a full eclipse of the moon, unusual planet alignments, and a variety of other anomalies, including an examination of some ultra-bright "stars" that twinkled a little too brightly. We discovered they were satellites circling the skies over our heads. We were amazed that we could see the Milky Way again. A friend brought the rods to our attention.
"Dog"
Recollections Of An Old Friend
While our brief life in Sedona was a bright and magical time for us, there was one dark moment. It involved the death of our dog, a golden shihtsu who had been with us for many years. We called him Dog. This breed is known for its intelligence, and Dog was no exception. Consequently he became a beloved member of our household. Dog actually had a few names. Our daughter, Jennifer, liked the name Muggins. Friends who stayed with us and helped us sell our property before we left for Arizona, nicknamed him Buddy. He answered to all three names. He was the runt of his pack with an unusual golden coloring. We fell in love with him the minute we saw him and that opinion never changed. He was the smartest pet I think we have ever owned.
While our brief life in Sedona was a bright and magical time for us, there was one dark moment. It involved the death of our dog, a golden shihtsu who had been with us for many years. We called him Dog. This breed is known for its intelligence, and Dog was no exception. Consequently he became a beloved member of our household. Dog actually had a few names. Our daughter, Jennifer, liked the name Muggins. Friends who stayed with us and helped us sell our property before we left for Arizona, nicknamed him Buddy. He answered to all three names. He was the runt of his pack with an unusual golden coloring. We fell in love with him the minute we saw him and that opinion never changed. He was the smartest pet I think we have ever owned.
Strange Sedona Energies
During the brief time we lived there, we found Sedona to be a magnificent and spiritual Mecca, filled with people all seeking in their own way to link with the earth and with one another. It was our destiny to capture the wonder of that place. We walked among wizards, witches, psychics, energy vampires and crystal wielding new age characters all accepting one another in spite of the other guy's strange dress, personal belief or behavior. With five different vortexes of energy all spewing out of the rocks around us, it should not be surprising that it was a place of magic, haunting and a lot of other strange goings on. We loved Sedona.
During the brief time we lived there, we found Sedona to be a magnificent and spiritual Mecca, filled with people all seeking in their own way to link with the earth and with one another. It was our destiny to capture the wonder of that place. We walked among wizards, witches, psychics, energy vampires and crystal wielding new age characters all accepting one another in spite of the other guy's strange dress, personal belief or behavior. With five different vortexes of energy all spewing out of the rocks around us, it should not be surprising that it was a place of magic, haunting and a lot of other strange goings on. We loved Sedona.
Monkey Face Rock
The Mysterious Mesas Of Arizona
The strange mesa formations that dot the Navajo landscape in northeastern Arizona are no mystery to the natives who live among them. They tell stories about how the rocks rose from the earth, driven by some mighty force under their feet. They say it was the Mother Earth herself who spawned them. That explanation is as good as anything geologists have come up with. Stories about volcanic action or wind and water erosion don't seem to fit. Close examination of the mesas show them to all be at similar height, a section of earth thrust hundreds of feet high, some with flat tops evenly covered with about the same kind of soil as the surrounding desert lands below.
The strange mesa formations that dot the Navajo landscape in northeastern Arizona are no mystery to the natives who live among them. They tell stories about how the rocks rose from the earth, driven by some mighty force under their feet. They say it was the Mother Earth herself who spawned them. That explanation is as good as anything geologists have come up with. Stories about volcanic action or wind and water erosion don't seem to fit. Close examination of the mesas show them to all be at similar height, a section of earth thrust hundreds of feet high, some with flat tops evenly covered with about the same kind of soil as the surrounding desert lands below.
The Skinwalker Eludes The Scientific Mind
By definition, a skinwalker is a scientific impossibility. It is a human that has allegedly achieved an ability to change shape at will and become a wild animal or bird, or at least give others the impression he or she can do this. I first heard of skinwalkers when I met a man who claimed to be one. He was a drifter who told about spending time in prison for violating federal laws in a quest to protect wolves from being hunted into extinction in the southwest. He said he escaped the monotony of prison by turning himself into a bird and flying free. I marked the story down as just another western tall tale. It was when my wife and I lived for that winter with a Navajo medicine man and his wife that the concept of a skinwalker moved into a new realm of understanding.
By definition, a skinwalker is a scientific impossibility. It is a human that has allegedly achieved an ability to change shape at will and become a wild animal or bird, or at least give others the impression he or she can do this. I first heard of skinwalkers when I met a man who claimed to be one. He was a drifter who told about spending time in prison for violating federal laws in a quest to protect wolves from being hunted into extinction in the southwest. He said he escaped the monotony of prison by turning himself into a bird and flying free. I marked the story down as just another western tall tale. It was when my wife and I lived for that winter with a Navajo medicine man and his wife that the concept of a skinwalker moved into a new realm of understanding.
Navajo Skinwalkers and Shape Shifters
An article by Clyde Klukhohn involving Navajo witchcraft brought to mind our personal experiences with the Navajo during the winter in 1996 when my wife and I lived with a medicine man and his wife near the Four Corners. Klukhohn notes that the Navajo who practice skinwalking and shape shifting are using a form of black witchcraft that is unique to the Navajo. He wrote that “there are no warning signs for the presence of a witch at work if they are in human form.” Such signs, he suggests, would include a blue flame or spoiled milk. It seems that Klukhohn may be a bit unfamiliar with his subject. This writer lived with a practicing black witch on the Navajo reservation, and afterward lived with a practicing black magician for several years, and can tell you without reservation, the practitioner offers no outward signs until you either are the subject of the craft, or you are allowed to see.
An article by Clyde Klukhohn involving Navajo witchcraft brought to mind our personal experiences with the Navajo during the winter in 1996 when my wife and I lived with a medicine man and his wife near the Four Corners. Klukhohn notes that the Navajo who practice skinwalking and shape shifting are using a form of black witchcraft that is unique to the Navajo. He wrote that “there are no warning signs for the presence of a witch at work if they are in human form.” Such signs, he suggests, would include a blue flame or spoiled milk. It seems that Klukhohn may be a bit unfamiliar with his subject. This writer lived with a practicing black witch on the Navajo reservation, and afterward lived with a practicing black magician for several years, and can tell you without reservation, the practitioner offers no outward signs until you either are the subject of the craft, or you are allowed to see.
Superstition Mountain
Southwest Mystery Stories Abound
We couldn't help feeling a bit smug when we read a recent article listing what the author claimed were the 10 biggest mysteries found in the American Southwest. Having lived there for a few (all too brief) years, we can add many more to the list that we are sure barely scratches the surface. There is something unusually strange and inviting about that dry high-desert area where the Hopi make their home as do numerous other Native American tribes. All of the aboriginal people have their secret mystery stories, of course. The native legends abound where ever one might stop for a cup of coffee or a beer along the road.
We couldn't help feeling a bit smug when we read a recent article listing what the author claimed were the 10 biggest mysteries found in the American Southwest. Having lived there for a few (all too brief) years, we can add many more to the list that we are sure barely scratches the surface. There is something unusually strange and inviting about that dry high-desert area where the Hopi make their home as do numerous other Native American tribes. All of the aboriginal people have their secret mystery stories, of course. The native legends abound where ever one might stop for a cup of coffee or a beer along the road.
Can It Be That Our Origins Are Not Of This Earth?
Even though it was a remote area, amazing things had a way of happening on the Navajo Reservation. We witnessed peyote spiritual ceremonies, saw humans change into animals and then back again, watched half naked Ye'ii Bi'cheii dancers by the light of winter campfires and experienced the effects of magic spells and healing prayer while the smoke of burning cedar filled the room. We learned that everything we thought was real and true was only an illusion. We were privileged to witness a much different reality than the one we thought was correct. We learned that the natives believe there are buildings on the Moon.
Even though it was a remote area, amazing things had a way of happening on the Navajo Reservation. We witnessed peyote spiritual ceremonies, saw humans change into animals and then back again, watched half naked Ye'ii Bi'cheii dancers by the light of winter campfires and experienced the effects of magic spells and healing prayer while the smoke of burning cedar filled the room. We learned that everything we thought was real and true was only an illusion. We were privileged to witness a much different reality than the one we thought was correct. We learned that the natives believe there are buildings on the Moon.
Fond Memories Of Navajo Fry Bread
The head of an Indian rights organization in New Mexico recently suggested that the Navajo, Apache and other tribes in Arizona and New Mexico are eating too much fry bread. Suzan Shown Harjo, president and executive director of The Morningstar Institute, criticized the puffy, fried dough disks prepared in heated animal fat and sold across the country at powwows, fairs and Indian rodeos and urged the people to stop eating the stuff as the first step toward regaining good health. But if there is anything really tasty sold by the Indians at public reservation gatherings, it is fry bread. You see it everywhere. It is cheap. Easy to make. And a real treat to eat.
The head of an Indian rights organization in New Mexico recently suggested that the Navajo, Apache and other tribes in Arizona and New Mexico are eating too much fry bread. Suzan Shown Harjo, president and executive director of The Morningstar Institute, criticized the puffy, fried dough disks prepared in heated animal fat and sold across the country at powwows, fairs and Indian rodeos and urged the people to stop eating the stuff as the first step toward regaining good health. But if there is anything really tasty sold by the Indians at public reservation gatherings, it is fry bread. You see it everywhere. It is cheap. Easy to make. And a real treat to eat.
Ted Our Hopi Connection
We remained in Arizona eight months before we met Ted Kootzewatewa at a Summer Solstice gathering in Sedona. The night we met him, we had no idea that Ted was Hopi royalty. He later revealed that he was a two-horned priest by birth. That made him a high official on the reservation. As events unfolded that summer, we found ourselves personally involved in a most astounding set of circumstances, and personally involved in one of the tribe's most sacred prophetic beliefs.
We remained in Arizona eight months before we met Ted Kootzewatewa at a Summer Solstice gathering in Sedona. The night we met him, we had no idea that Ted was Hopi royalty. He later revealed that he was a two-horned priest by birth. That made him a high official on the reservation. As events unfolded that summer, we found ourselves personally involved in a most astounding set of circumstances, and personally involved in one of the tribe's most sacred prophetic beliefs.
Living Amid The Arizona Gun Culture
After my wife and I moved in 1995 from Michigan to live for a few years in Arizona we were shocked to find men walking around with holstered guns openly strapped on their hips. After living in a gun restricted state like Michigan, it seemed as if we had stepped right into a wild western movie. Only this was real. People in Arizona really liked their guns. Before we left the state I found myself packing with the rest of them.
After my wife and I moved in 1995 from Michigan to live for a few years in Arizona we were shocked to find men walking around with holstered guns openly strapped on their hips. After living in a gun restricted state like Michigan, it seemed as if we had stepped right into a wild western movie. Only this was real. People in Arizona really liked their guns. Before we left the state I found myself packing with the rest of them.
Encountering The Electric Man
Homelessness seems to drive people into a state of insanity. We saw all forms of this during the summer of 1996 when we were among the people of the forest in and around Sedona, Arizona. Among the more interesting characters was the young man who temporarily came to live in our back yard.
Homelessness seems to drive people into a state of insanity. We saw all forms of this during the summer of 1996 when we were among the people of the forest in and around Sedona, Arizona. Among the more interesting characters was the young man who temporarily came to live in our back yard.
Contact With The Late William Cooper
Among the dynamic personalities I had the privilege of interviewing during my time as an Arizona news reporter was the late William Cooper. Cooper was a real wild-west bad boy from the old gun-slinging town of Eager, Arizona. Eager was well known in the early days as a hang-out for many of the infamous bank robbers and other villains of American history. In more recent years, it was the home of movie star John Wayne. In his day, William “Bill” Cooper was probably as well known and respected as John Wayne, but mostly among the militia types throughout the United States. He was considered a criminal by the government because he refused to pay his taxes.
Among the dynamic personalities I had the privilege of interviewing during my time as an Arizona news reporter was the late William Cooper. Cooper was a real wild-west bad boy from the old gun-slinging town of Eager, Arizona. Eager was well known in the early days as a hang-out for many of the infamous bank robbers and other villains of American history. In more recent years, it was the home of movie star John Wayne. In his day, William “Bill” Cooper was probably as well known and respected as John Wayne, but mostly among the militia types throughout the United States. He was considered a criminal by the government because he refused to pay his taxes.
Visiting My Dead Mother
There are a lot of stories about mystics who help people visit with the dead. There are stories about ghosts that haunt the world after they leave it. I have learned that some of these encounters may be true, especially the ghost stories. But the veil that separates us from the dead is thin enough that once we know the secret of penetrating it, connecting with the dead is possible. I achieved it.
There are a lot of stories about mystics who help people visit with the dead. There are stories about ghosts that haunt the world after they leave it. I have learned that some of these encounters may be true, especially the ghost stories. But the veil that separates us from the dead is thin enough that once we know the secret of penetrating it, connecting with the dead is possible. I achieved it.
Collapse Of My Homeland
Looking back at it, the world was already in a state of change at the turn of the century and the beginning of the Millennium. After our adventures in Arizona my wife and I returned to Huron County, the place of my youth. There I worked briefly as a county and city government reporter for a weekly newspaper in Bad Axe, Michigan, before going into full retirement. Thomas Wolfe was right when he wrote that famous line: “you can’t go home again.” Indeed, nothing was like it was when we left.
Looking back at it, the world was already in a state of change at the turn of the century and the beginning of the Millennium. After our adventures in Arizona my wife and I returned to Huron County, the place of my youth. There I worked briefly as a county and city government reporter for a weekly newspaper in Bad Axe, Michigan, before going into full retirement. Thomas Wolfe was right when he wrote that famous line: “you can’t go home again.” Indeed, nothing was like it was when we left.
Strange Synchronicities
The late author Robert Anton Wilson liked to consider the forces working around us that create unexplained synchronicities. For example, he once wrote that the number 23 seemed to appear everywhere he looked. For us, it has been the number 666. We see that number combination on automobile license plates, sometimes numerous times in a single day when we are traveling. We see it in telephone numbers, in addresses, and in unexpected places like airplane fuselages, on railroad cars and even on cash registers. Looking beyond the numerics, our story really gets strange.
The late author Robert Anton Wilson liked to consider the forces working around us that create unexplained synchronicities. For example, he once wrote that the number 23 seemed to appear everywhere he looked. For us, it has been the number 666. We see that number combination on automobile license plates, sometimes numerous times in a single day when we are traveling. We see it in telephone numbers, in addresses, and in unexpected places like airplane fuselages, on railroad cars and even on cash registers. Looking beyond the numerics, our story really gets strange.
Grass Roots Environmental Issues
After the turn of the century the politics of Huron County, Michigan, were about as active as I can remember in all of my years as a news reporter. And nearly every problem seemed to revolve around environmental issues. The hottest issues involved arsenic found in the local water supplies, state demands for improved sewage treatment and the influx and impact of factory farms on the local communities.
After the turn of the century the politics of Huron County, Michigan, were about as active as I can remember in all of my years as a news reporter. And nearly every problem seemed to revolve around environmental issues. The hottest issues involved arsenic found in the local water supplies, state demands for improved sewage treatment and the influx and impact of factory farms on the local communities.
Workers' Compensation Insurance Nightmare
Everyone in the United States who works for wages is required by law to receive workers' compensation insurance. This insurance, paid by employers, is regarded as part of the payment the worker receives for labor performed. Workers' Compensation Insurance was created to cover injuries received on the job, or treatment of some medical conditions that are considered to be job related. It sounded lie a good idea. Like many government mandated programs, however, Workers' Compensation Insurance became a bureaucratic nightmare that often fails to achieve what it was intended to do. We have a personal story that demonstrates our point.
Everyone in the United States who works for wages is required by law to receive workers' compensation insurance. This insurance, paid by employers, is regarded as part of the payment the worker receives for labor performed. Workers' Compensation Insurance was created to cover injuries received on the job, or treatment of some medical conditions that are considered to be job related. It sounded lie a good idea. Like many government mandated programs, however, Workers' Compensation Insurance became a bureaucratic nightmare that often fails to achieve what it was intended to do. We have a personal story that demonstrates our point.
The Dog Woman
She was known as the "Dog Woman." Her name is Ingeburg Erika Schulz. She was a young-looking 73 when I knew her; a bright, articulate and outspoken woman who believed she was the victim of a conspiracy by uncaring neighbors and a certain police officer who launched a personal vendetta against her. That vendetta, or perhaps the insistence by authorities to force a nonconforming eccentric woman like Schulz to "follow the law" no matter what her circumstances, succeed in destroying Ingeburg's life and making her a ward of the state.
She was known as the "Dog Woman." Her name is Ingeburg Erika Schulz. She was a young-looking 73 when I knew her; a bright, articulate and outspoken woman who believed she was the victim of a conspiracy by uncaring neighbors and a certain police officer who launched a personal vendetta against her. That vendetta, or perhaps the insistence by authorities to force a nonconforming eccentric woman like Schulz to "follow the law" no matter what her circumstances, succeed in destroying Ingeburg's life and making her a ward of the state.
Quitting Addictions With Willpower
When living in Bad Axe, we had a crisis in the apartment building we occupied when one of the tenants got entangled with the police and his probation officer over his alcoholism. It was well known that this man was "on the wagon" following a drunk driving conviction. He was riding a bicycle to work and depending on friends and neighbors to cart groceries and other essentials because his driver's license was in the hands of the state. And he was making regular visits to his probation officer. But things fell apart for him in a hurry and as hard as we tried, we could not stop the inevitable.
When living in Bad Axe, we had a crisis in the apartment building we occupied when one of the tenants got entangled with the police and his probation officer over his alcoholism. It was well known that this man was "on the wagon" following a drunk driving conviction. He was riding a bicycle to work and depending on friends and neighbors to cart groceries and other essentials because his driver's license was in the hands of the state. And he was making regular visits to his probation officer. But things fell apart for him in a hurry and as hard as we tried, we could not stop the inevitable.
A Universe In Decay
As I sat quietly in our 10-year-old car, watching the people come and go from the front door at the local Wal-Mart, I saw an elderly couple exit the building with a shopping cart full of their purchases. It was obvious that they were way into their twilight years. Both hobbled along, she leaning on the cart for support and he holding onto the side of the cart and making his way with the help of a cane. Some thoughts about old age and death.
As I sat quietly in our 10-year-old car, watching the people come and go from the front door at the local Wal-Mart, I saw an elderly couple exit the building with a shopping cart full of their purchases. It was obvious that they were way into their twilight years. Both hobbled along, she leaning on the cart for support and he holding onto the side of the cart and making his way with the help of a cane. Some thoughts about old age and death.
Was It Alien Contact?
My late wife and I were startled one morning by some loud knocking on our second floor bedroom wall in our Michigan home. The rapping seemed intelligent in that there was some design to it. Three sharp knocks, a pause, two more raps, another pause, then perhaps four or five raps. This continued for several minutes, the noise slowly moving from one corner of the room northward along an outer wall toward a closet door. It was a loud knocking, as if someone was on the other side of our plaster wall. Yet behind that wall is the exterior of the house. From the second floor of an old Victorian home on a hill, it would have taken someone on a scaffold with a heavy hammer to accomplish such a racket.
My late wife and I were startled one morning by some loud knocking on our second floor bedroom wall in our Michigan home. The rapping seemed intelligent in that there was some design to it. Three sharp knocks, a pause, two more raps, another pause, then perhaps four or five raps. This continued for several minutes, the noise slowly moving from one corner of the room northward along an outer wall toward a closet door. It was a loud knocking, as if someone was on the other side of our plaster wall. Yet behind that wall is the exterior of the house. From the second floor of an old Victorian home on a hill, it would have taken someone on a scaffold with a heavy hammer to accomplish such a racket.
Those Ancient Irish Roots
By my very name it is not difficult for readers to know that I have family roots in Ireland. Thus it is always of great interest when archaeological, genetic and historical researchers publish new insight into the history of Ireland and calculate the origins of the people who settled there.
By my very name it is not difficult for readers to know that I have family roots in Ireland. Thus it is always of great interest when archaeological, genetic and historical researchers publish new insight into the history of Ireland and calculate the origins of the people who settled there.
Social Mores, Whiskers And Santa Claus
Beards have long been part of the American image. Some of our most adored icons . . . the statues and images of Abraham Lincoln, General Robert E. Lee and Uncle Sam . . . are among the best examples. I grew my first beard while attending college in the late 1950s at a time when electric razors were in and beards were definitely out. I fell in with nonconformists, read Jack Kerouac’s book “On The Road” and declared myself a member of the Beat Generation. Part of the rebellious spirit was a decision to declare myself an agnostic..
Beards have long been part of the American image. Some of our most adored icons . . . the statues and images of Abraham Lincoln, General Robert E. Lee and Uncle Sam . . . are among the best examples. I grew my first beard while attending college in the late 1950s at a time when electric razors were in and beards were definitely out. I fell in with nonconformists, read Jack Kerouac’s book “On The Road” and declared myself a member of the Beat Generation. Part of the rebellious spirit was a decision to declare myself an agnostic..
America Isn't the Same
(Jan. 1, 2016) A little over a year ago my daughter Jennifer and I spent seven days traveling across the United States, cramped in the cab of a large U-Haul truck, after selling our Michigan home. We followed the same route we took with my late wife, Doris, nearly 20 years earlier, angling down through the Midwestern states until reaching Interstate 40, then driving west from Oklahoma through the Panhandle of Texas, into New Mexico, and through Arizona. It was my last look at the heart of the nation and I was troubled even then by what we saw.
(Jan. 1, 2016) A little over a year ago my daughter Jennifer and I spent seven days traveling across the United States, cramped in the cab of a large U-Haul truck, after selling our Michigan home. We followed the same route we took with my late wife, Doris, nearly 20 years earlier, angling down through the Midwestern states until reaching Interstate 40, then driving west from Oklahoma through the Panhandle of Texas, into New Mexico, and through Arizona. It was my last look at the heart of the nation and I was troubled even then by what we saw.
The Passing of a Spider
It is strange to think that we actually mourned the passing of a little spider in our apartment last week. This spider moved in with us during a seasonal invasion of tiny back ants. Actually this ant invasion was among the worst in the local history. The tiny pests are known as the Argentine ant and it has virtually invaded the Western coastal states, from Oregon to Mexico. The ants were a big nuisance until a few little spiders moved in. Then we enjoyed a balance of nature. You just needed a magnifying glass to enjoy it.
It is strange to think that we actually mourned the passing of a little spider in our apartment last week. This spider moved in with us during a seasonal invasion of tiny back ants. Actually this ant invasion was among the worst in the local history. The tiny pests are known as the Argentine ant and it has virtually invaded the Western coastal states, from Oregon to Mexico. The ants were a big nuisance until a few little spiders moved in. Then we enjoyed a balance of nature. You just needed a magnifying glass to enjoy it.
Americans Dealing With Growing Old
When waiting in an eye surgeon’s office for a check-up after having cataracts removed from my eyes, I encountered an elderly and outspoken woman who was struggling to get along with the help of a walker. "Getting old is hard work," she muttered as someone held a door for her. As a member of the growing number of aging Americans now hobbling through life, I realized that this woman’s simple statement was quite profound. In spite of all of the fancy television ads and the promise of the "golden years," growing old is not quite as grand as some would have people believe.
When waiting in an eye surgeon’s office for a check-up after having cataracts removed from my eyes, I encountered an elderly and outspoken woman who was struggling to get along with the help of a walker. "Getting old is hard work," she muttered as someone held a door for her. As a member of the growing number of aging Americans now hobbling through life, I realized that this woman’s simple statement was quite profound. In spite of all of the fancy television ads and the promise of the "golden years," growing old is not quite as grand as some would have people believe.
The California Ant Invasion
Since invading my home sometime in August, this colony has taken over, in spite of best effort to ward it off. No food is left out except during meal time. Garbage is carried out immediately. All cracks and possible places of entry have been calked and sealed. Yet still they come. They are everywhere. I find them all over the kitchen, even in the refrigerator. They are in or on our sinks, my water glass, my coffee cup the moment it cools, my desk, my bed, the cat’s food dish, my bed and all over me. I am constantly picking them from my arm, my face, the screen on my computer, even my toothbrush.
Since invading my home sometime in August, this colony has taken over, in spite of best effort to ward it off. No food is left out except during meal time. Garbage is carried out immediately. All cracks and possible places of entry have been calked and sealed. Yet still they come. They are everywhere. I find them all over the kitchen, even in the refrigerator. They are in or on our sinks, my water glass, my coffee cup the moment it cools, my desk, my bed, the cat’s food dish, my bed and all over me. I am constantly picking them from my arm, my face, the screen on my computer, even my toothbrush.
When the Lights Go Out
Pacific Gas & Electric chose to turn the power to my Santa Cruz County home in California at 8 p.m. I was suddenly forced to stop what I was doing and just go to bed. I realized the room night light was out, my electric clock was blank and the portable heater I use to keep the room comfortable was out as was the working air purification unit. The entire building we occupy was plunged into a dead silence. This happened on one of the shortest days of the year so I sat up in my room for the next 11 hours in total darkness. Who can sleep when all the natural sounds, lights and comforts of home are unexpectedly turned off? Imagine how unnerving it would be to find you in a situation like this without prior warning. I paced the floor using my flashlight on occasion to get my bearings until the sun began pushing back the darkness at about 7 a.m.
Pacific Gas & Electric chose to turn the power to my Santa Cruz County home in California at 8 p.m. I was suddenly forced to stop what I was doing and just go to bed. I realized the room night light was out, my electric clock was blank and the portable heater I use to keep the room comfortable was out as was the working air purification unit. The entire building we occupy was plunged into a dead silence. This happened on one of the shortest days of the year so I sat up in my room for the next 11 hours in total darkness. Who can sleep when all the natural sounds, lights and comforts of home are unexpectedly turned off? Imagine how unnerving it would be to find you in a situation like this without prior warning. I paced the floor using my flashlight on occasion to get my bearings until the sun began pushing back the darkness at about 7 a.m.
Can There Be Death Without Pain?
Death is something we all must face. It is something we don’t like to think about, and we rationalize away the thing we fear the most . . . having to suffer extreme pain while getting from the state of being alive to being dead. When I was young and in the prime of life, the mere thought of having to someday experience the pain and agony of dying was frightening. Sometimes I would experience going into a cold sweat just thinking about having to face it. But as I have aged, and parts of my body have started breaking down, the thought of dying doesn’t seem quite so bad.
Death is something we all must face. It is something we don’t like to think about, and we rationalize away the thing we fear the most . . . having to suffer extreme pain while getting from the state of being alive to being dead. When I was young and in the prime of life, the mere thought of having to someday experience the pain and agony of dying was frightening. Sometimes I would experience going into a cold sweat just thinking about having to face it. But as I have aged, and parts of my body have started breaking down, the thought of dying doesn’t seem quite so bad.