Category Archives: Celebrate the People

Articles on the colorful individuals and groups that make up the Grand Traverse Region. This includes people from our past as well as living history-makers. Oral histories and book reviews will also appear in this feature section.

Celebrate the People

1895 Old Mission Murder Provides Complex Characters, Upcoming Sequel for Novelist

December 1, 2015 admin 1 Comment

The following vignette was provided by the author of Murder on Old Mission, Stephen Lewis. Lewis is currently crafting the sequel to that well-received novel. Expected publication is early 2016. Murder on Old Mission is currently available at local booksellers and at Amazon.com.

Headstone of George Parmelee, father of Woodruff, placed at Lakeside Cemetery on Old Mission Peninsula.

In 1895, Woodruff Parmelee, the scion of a major Old Mission Peninsula farming family, was sentenced to life imprisonment in solitary confinement for the murder of Julia Curtis, his pregnant girlfriend. Julia’s body was found at the base of Old Mission Peninsula in an area near East Bay that was called the hemlock swamp. By modern standards, the prosecution’s case against Woodruff was well short of solid. It depended upon the questionable forensic evidence of footprints found near the body, which may or may not have been Woodruff’s, but could equally well have been those of any of the thirty or forty men who were searching for her. There was also the eyewitness testimony of a hired hand named Stagg who had a history of perjury and who offered to leave the area if he were paid enough.

Parmelee’s defense was built on an alibi. He could not have killed Julia, he claimed, because at the very time she went missing, he was working on a new road on the other side of the Peninsula heading toward West Bay. The prosecutor’s witness testified that he had seen Parmelee heading east, away from that new road. Parmelee said, no, he was going the other way. Clearly this difference is crucial. If Parmelee could prove his version, it would establish his alibi, and he would have to be acquitted. He could not be in two places at the same time.

Receiving scant attention in the detailed newspaper reports of the trial was the testimony of Parmelee’s son Louis who supported his father’s alibi. He stated that when he went to join his father working on the road, he met his father coming from the west.

The testimony of both witnesses was less than convincing: Stagg’s character is at issue as is Louis’s assumed filial attachment to his father. If we say that their testimony cancelled each other out, not much besides the footprint evidence remains of the prosecutor’s case. Nonetheless, Parmelee was convicted. In all probability, the unstated basis for his conviction was his troubled marital history, including two failed marriages, and the fact that he was twice the age of Julia.

This is the story I fictionalize in Murder On Old Mission. In my version, I focus fully on the testimony of the son. By changing some facts and adding others, I intensify the son’s situation. That book’s penultimate chapter takes the story to Parmelee’s conviction. Its very last chapter provides the bridge to the sequel I am now writing. That chapter jumps twenty years ahead when Parmelee, in spite of his sentence, is again a free man, returning to Traverse City where he is reunited with his son.

My sequel intends to fill in what happened between conviction and release. Parmelee was convicted of a most heinous crime. His sentence reflected the severity of the community’s judgment. If capital punishment had been available, Parmelee would have been a candidate for execution. Yet, not only did he not serve his life sentence, he was released, and in fact lived another twenty-seven years, almost outliving Louis, who died shortly after him.

Index card from Jackson State Prison, indicating the intervention of Governor Ferris, on behalf of Woodruf Parmelee. — Index card from Jackson State Prison, indicating the intervention of Governor Ferris, on behalf of Woodruff Parmelee. Image courtesy of Stephen Lewis.

There is one salient fact that explains Parmelee’s release: the intervention of Governor Woodbridge Ferris, who interviewed Parmelee in Jackson State Prison immediately prior to Parmelee being paroled. My research as to why this extraordinary intervention occurred has come up empty. Why the governor should have picked Parmelee out of all the prisoners in Jackson at that time for his personal assistance remains a mystery.

And that provides me the opportunity of creating fictional circumstances to fill that void. As I did in Murder On Old Mission, I am building on the historical facts, but this time, as well, I am constrained by the fictional facts I created in the first book.

That is an interesting challenge.

Review of Murder on Old Mission
Amy Barritt, co-editor of Grand Traverse Journal

Reminiscent of Arthur Miller’s work, The Crucible, Murder on Old Mission is a fictionalized account of a true crime that took place on Old Mission Peninsula. Although we modern readers might associate the Peninsula with breathtaking views and wineries, author Stephen Lewis deftly realizes the relative isolation of that region in the late 19th century, which would, on occasion, encourage intense interpersonal relationships to compensate. Readers are invited to see both sides of that coin, in the passionate relations between Sam Logan and Margaret Cutter and in the unexpectedly adversarial relationship between Sam and his son, Isaiah.

Highly descriptive and full of rich conversations, this is the type of book wherein the scene can play out in your imagination as a movie would. A drama of the highest order, and well worth a sequel, which I eagerly anticipate.

Excerpt from the sequel to Murder on Old Mission
by Stephen Lewis

Isaiah adjusted his sailor’s gait to the flat surface of the road leading to the church. Everything else was eerily familiar. It had been five years since he walked up this road on the day that began to change his life. But the road itself, inanimate and without memory, just lay insensate beneath his shoes. Somehow he had thought that the dust rising beneath his feet would carry with it echoes of that day, perhaps a word, a sigh forced out between clenched teeth, an image of a face drawn in pain, a tear trickling down a man’s unshaven cheek or finding a path along the worn furrows of a woman’s face, and above all a pervasive black of mourning.

On this morning to be sure, the shadow of death argued against the bright rays of the sun this late spring day. But this time, death’s face wore a bemused grin, a weary acknowledgement that the deceased had simply run his appointed course and it was time for him to be gathered into the ground. In that respect, this occasion could not have been more different than that one five years ago when a person in full bloom had been cut down.

The handle of the church door felt the same as it did that day when he had grasped it with a hand warm and wet from sweat, his lungs gasping for air. And the hinges squeaked just as they did then. On that day, when he pushed the door open ever so slowly to minimize the disturbance of the squeaking hinges, he was confronted by an empty building. He was too late. Through the rear door, he could see the mourners gathered around the freshly dug grave into which the woman he loved would be interred, and standing, ashen faced, among the mourners was his father soon to be convicted of putting her there.

Today, however, the congregants were all in their seats. He stood for a moment at the rear of the church. He expected heads to turn around to gaze at him in response to the loud squeaking of the door on its hinges but none had. He had tried to prepare himself for that eventuality, but had not come up with a suitable response. Several people did now, belatedly, turn in his direction, but then swiveled their heads back toward the front of the building. Perhaps, he figured, they had not recognized him. It had been, after all, some years.

Biography of the Author

Stephen Lewis, novelist, with furry friend.

Born and raised in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, Stephen Lewis holds a doctorate in American Literature from New York University, and he is Professor of English Emeritus at Suffolk Community College, on Long Island, New York. He now lives with his wife on five acres in a restored farmhouse on Old Mission Peninsula in northern lower Michigan.

After having written The Monkey Rope (1990), and And Baby Makes None (1991) two mysteries set in Brooklyn and published by Walker & Company, Lewis turned his attention to a different time and place, New England in the seventeenth century, for Mysteries of Colonial Times. The stories set in Brooklyn dipped into Lewis’s childhood, while this second series, written for Berkley, drew upon his expertise as a scholar of New England Puritanism. The Dumb Shall Sing, the first of this series was published August, 1999, followed by The Blind in Darkness in May, 2000, and The Sea Hath Spoken January, 2001. Murder On Old Mission, put out in 2005 by Arbutus Press, was a finalist in the historical fiction category of ForeWord Magazine’s book of the year awards. His mystery novel, Stone Cold Dead, was submitted by Arbutus to the 2007 Edgars. Belgrave House recently published A Suspicion of Witchcraft, his first ebook original novel.

Before turning to mystery fiction, Lewis published short stories, poetry, scholarly articles, and five college textbooks, including Philosophy: An Introduction Through Literature (with Lowell Kleiman, Paragon House, 1992) which is still being used in a number of colleges. This past December, Broadview Press, a Canadian independent, published Templates, a sentence level rhetoric that relates syntax to computer templates.

He continues working in various fiction genres. His more recent short story publications include “The Visit,” a literary short story in The Chariton Review, “Eagles Rising,” a mystery story in Palo Alto Review, “A Foolish Son,” a historical story published online in the Copperfield Review, and “The King Knew Her Not,” in Green Hills Literary Lantern.

Celebrate the People

A. Papano’s Serves Up Hot Pizza, Quality History

November 1, 2015 Amy Barritt 2 Comments

For the staff at A. Papano’s Pizza of Kingsley, history is more than just a rehashing of the past; It is all about building community, according to Jeff Yacks, owner.

“The community of Kingsley has meant so much to us, and it’s so underserved. They deserve more–to be served a great product–and they deserve great service. That should be an expectation.”

So when A. Papano’s crew leader Jeff Pearson began researching the history of the building occupied by the business at the corner of Brownson and Blair, he saw an opportunity to engage with the community on a more meaningful level.

“Initially, I didn’t think this project would come to mean what it has. When Jeff asked to research the building we’re in, I thought it was for a grade, a score, a plaque, but it turned into a lot more than that. I would say it was a humbling experience. We spoke with a lot of community members, the research we did, just hours of it. It turned into this huge, amazing, overwhelming thing.”

The research project culminated in the unveiling of a display, now available for public viewing in the seating area of the restaurant at the Kingsley location. The display features the history of the building, tracing the previous owners and functions, as well as pointing out some of the unique parts of the building, left over from years of remodeling.

Downtown Kingsley is largely comprised of brick structures dating from the early 1900s, and over the years, doors were closed off, windows bricked up, and more. The staff are especially proud of uncovering the last bit of original tin ceiling in their building, which miraculously survived an early 1990s demolition project.

The ceiling of Beyer's Grocery, now on display at the Kingsley Branch Library. Image and artifact courtesy of Yacks. — The ceiling of Beyer’s Grocery, now on display at the Kingsley Branch Library. Image and artifact courtesy of Yacks.

“Through the Kingsley Branch Library staff, I found out that the ceiling of Tony Beyer’s grocery had been ripped out in the early 90s, and they supposed that all of it was gone. I then went and talked to our landlord, and he thought there might be some left. We (A.Papano’s staff) searched and searched all 2000 square feet of the building, and found a 4 by 6 foot section. There was plumbing and insulation in the way, we had to get a ladder… and Jeff got metal shavings in his eye, so I sent him to get a tetanus shot… three hours later, we ended up with a piece of the tin ceiling!” The ceiling tile is now on display at the Kingsley Branch Library.

For their tireless efforts, the research team was awarded the Floyd Milton Webster Prize for History in June 2015. When asked about what made this research project worthwhile, Yacks pointed to the June 22nd award ceremony.

Interior of Tony Beyer's grocery, now A. Papano's Pizza, downtown Kingsley, 1924. Image courtesy of Kingsley Branch Library. — Interior of Tony Beyer’s grocery, now A. Papano’s Pizza, downtown Kingsley, 1924. Image courtesy of Kingsley Branch Library.

“When we got there, I was overwhelmed. All these community members, people I looked up to as local heroes, were sitting there, and I remember thinking we were out of our league and should just walk out. But then they called us up, and I was shocked; Mr. Webster was there, all 96 years of him, and at that moment not only did I feel like this project was so beyond what I expected, but that I was accepted into this legacy, and I knew I had to continue. That was the a-ha moment, where all this time spent, all this research, was all worthwhile. When someone like Mr. Webster shakes your hand… he looked at us as the future; There was almost a sense of blessing, a passing of the torch.”

So what was the most difficult part of the project? “Early on, we were trying to find the initial land plotting, and I was going through all the libers at the governmental center, tracing all that history. We were trying to prove or disprove if Doctor Brownson (who operated Brownson Sanitarium in Kingsley at the turn of the 20th century) ever owned the land, but we never did find that link. That was a lot of Friday afternoons spent,” explained Yacks.

The governmental center wasn’t the only place the research team turned to for help. Yacks praises staff at both the Kingsley and Woodmere Branches at Traverse Area District Library for their assistance, even though he was leery to use those services at first.

“In my line of work, I am use to schedules, everything is fast-paced, minute-by-minute. Our employees have expectations on efficiency. When I started, I didn’t really know how to work with the library employees. I felt like I was sucking up all their time. What I learned is that for librarians, time isn’t measured in minutes, but in outcomes, and solutions. It was hard to ask for help, then take up an hour of time, and thinking that person should be doing something else. For me, the whole experience really embedded the library in the community.”

Despite the significant amount of time spent on the project, Yacks stresses the value of engaging in a history research project like this, and what it has done for his business.

Jeff Pearson (right) with Jeff Yacks in front of A. Papano's Pizza of Kingsley history display. Image courtesy of Yacks. — Jeff Pearson (right) with Jeff Yacks in front of A. Papano’s Pizza of Kingsley history display. Image courtesy of Yacks.

“Engaging in this project benefits both the business and my employees, which are really like family, and for the community. Our business was already aligning with the community in many ways, and it was perfect timing, for the business, staff and community to have a common tie.”

“This project fits with my philosophy, that when we can establish relationships with our customers, it creates top-mind awareness. When customers see us at community events, look at our display, it leads them to thinking of us over our competitors. Because of something like this, we’re establishing the emotional connections that build loyalty. Talking with community residents to accomplish this meant a lot of relationship building. It changed the course of our business in our community. We’re embedded in our community now, more than any amount of marketing could do.”

Amy Barritt is co-editor of Grand Traverse Journal.

Celebrate the People

John R. Bush: Traverse City’s own Paul Bunyan

October 1, 2015 admin

by Julie Schopieray

Men at Betsie River, working with peavys to ensure logs are driven downriver. Image courtesy of the Bensley Collection, History Center of Traverse City.

By the turn of the 20th century, much of Michigan’s forests were depleted and large scale lumbering was over. The men who worked in the logging camps moved on and found other ways to support their families. One of these men was John R. Bush. He was born in Ontario about 1865, son of Jesse and Maria Rosebush. Jesse was a Civil War veteran and moved between his home state of New York and Ontario, Canada, finally settling in Bay City, Michigan in the early 1880s. He had his own drayage business delivering and hauling baggage and goods in his wagon, later becoming the “city scavenger” an appointed position where he used his hauling experience to pick up junk for the city.

“Johnny” Rosebush lived with his parents and six siblings in Bay City and in 1880, at the age of 15, was already working in the lumber camps where he likely gained skills as a log driver, riding logs down the rivers and breaking up log jams. It was a dangerous but exciting job requiring stamina, balance, courage and sure-footedness.

He was still working as a lumberman near Gladwin in 1886 when he married Maria “Mary” Hodgins. Over the years he dropped the “Rose” from his last name and started going by Bush.

Their son Russell was born in Isabella county in 1889 where they lived until about 1897 when they took up residence in Traverse City. Bush started up a drayage and delivery service. One of his regular services was loading and delivering trunks and baggage for railroad and ship passengers.

His skills as a log rider did not go unnoticed. By 1901, he started putting on exhibitions regularly during Fourth of July and Labor day celebrations, where he would demonstrate birling, the spinning of a log under his feet, and riding a log either standing and sitting, down the chute at the dam near the Union Street bridge. These events drew hundreds, even thousands of people. One exhibition that was to take place on July 4th, 1902, was described in the paper:

When 9 o’clock came, an immense crowd had gathered to see John R. Bush do his fancy log riding above the grist mill dam and then shoot the chute. Cass street bridge and the banks were well filled… Union street bridge was crowded till traffic was blocked, the braces and timbers at the side and below held men as thick as black birds on a limb, the banks of the river on either side were lined with people, the chute had a goodly number of would-be spectators and even the telephone poles were occupied, one of them holding nine men, and below Union street there were probably 1,500 people more. In all it was estimated that at least 5,000 people were gathered to see the exhibition. – Traverse City Record-Eagle July, 5, 1902

Unfortunately, there was a mixup in communication and Bush did not show up. He had become ill, and word of his illness did not reach the organizing committee in time. Bush apologized, made good on his word and held another exhibition a week later. The July 17 performance was a success:

He mounted a small log that would just nicely sustain his weight, did some fancy work near the Cass street bridge, took off both coat and overalls while on the log and finally, after putting these ashore, went through the chute. He started standing, straddled the log while going through the chute, and resumed his standing position while the log was still in swift motion through the chute. The log got crosswise in the current, making the feat still more difficult. – Traverse City Record-Eagle July 18, 1902

It seems Bush was not above taking a dare from a friend. In April of 1902, his friend Charles Germaine dared him with the following conditions: to take a cedar pole only of a size Bush could carry and ride it down the river from Front St. bridge to the north Union St. bridge, and lighting a cigar during the ride. Germaine put up $5 against Bush’s $10 to see Bush do it. It can only be assumed that dares like this were concocted in one of the local taverns the night before!

Log driver with spiked shoes and hook, the tools of his trade. Image courtesy of National Film Board, Canada.

There were many people who thought that the entire affair was a bluff… but in a very few minutes Bush appeared, and with him a crowd of men anxious to see him win his money or get a ducking, many of them did not care much which, so long as they were entertained… He took a pole, a cedar about 12 feet long and barely large enough to sustain him when he got it in the water, and carried it from his delivery wagon to the river… The wind was blowing so strongly that it was obviously out of the question to light a cigar, and it was harder to stay on the log, so the condition that Bush was to light the cigar was withdrawn. There were hundreds of people on the banks and bridge when the attempt was made…. He lay down on the log, and floated for a considerable distance…then he sat up, and later lay down again. When he passed under the Union street bridge he was greeted with applause. [Mr] Greenwald handed over the $15 that had been put in his hands. Germaine was a good loser, expressed no regret at parting with the five and said that Bush earned his money.

The feat created so much excitement that the log Bush rode on was put on display in front of Miller’s Drug Store. A few days later, a local artist drew a cartoon of Bush on the log quoted him “declaring it was easy and that he would go over Niagara Falls on a log some day.”

The log-riding exhibitions made by John Bush became an annual event. In 1905 he put on a show at the Labor Day celebrations.:

Old grist mill dam, looking east on Boardman River. Image courtesy of History Center of Traverse City.

Union street bridge was lined with people to see John Bush do his log rolling act as the impression had gotten out that he was going down the chute. His exhibition, however, was given above the chute and consisted of birling and a number of fancy tricks with a log. Bush has lost none of his old time skill and his feats were given liberal applause. Mr. Bush was willing to go through the chute, but the Hannah & Lay company refused to allow the boom to be opened on account of the presence of a large amount of driftwood…

Beginning in 1900 Bush was known to take any opportunity to show off his skills in Traverse City. In August that year, an old part of the dam at the flour mill was being torn down and a good flow of water was coming over. Rival drayman Mark Craw decided he would ride a canoe over the old dam to show off in front of the people waiting for a delayed train at the station near the dam. John Bush wanted to do the same with a log, but could not find one at the time.

Bush and Craw were not friends. In fact their rivalry went back quite some time and ended in a bad way. In 1910, during an altercation over parking their rigs at a railroad station, Craw lost his temper and lashed Bush across the face with his horse whip. Bush brought charges against Craw and won his case in a trial. Craw went on to become the Humane Officer for the city as well as game warden.

John and his wife Mary had only one son. After Mary died unexpectedly in 1903, John was married again in 1905 to Maud McClellan, who was 20 years younger than himself. They had no children together. John died in Detroit on June 21, 1917, from “exhaustion from acute mania” after a two-month stay at the Eloise Infirmary. His brief obituary stated that he was a well-liked and kind man. He was only about 52 when he died.

John R. Bush, for many years hack driver and baggageman in this city, passed away at the home of his son in Detroit, on Thursday, June 21 and was buried June 23 at Detroit. Mr. Bush was well known all over the city and it has been said, and very truly, of him, that anyone going the same way Johnnie Bush was, never had to walk, even if they didn’t have the price of a ride. He had been in failing health for about two months. He will be greatly missed throughout the city. – Traverse City Press June 29, 1917

Please watch this charming video and remember John R. Bush and the many other sure-footed and courageous men who drove logs down the rivers of Northern Michigan:

Julie Schopieray is a local researcher, author, and regular contributor to Grand Traverse Journal.

Celebrate the People

A Tribute to Floyd Milton Webster, 1920-2015

September 1, 2015 admin

We at Grand Traverse Journal mourn the loss of our fount of knowledge and kindred spirit, Floyd Milton Webster, the historian and elder of the Village of Kingsley. At the ripe age of 95 he departed this earthly realm, on August 15, 2015, at his home on Fenton Street. We could not have wished more for him, than to pass on in the home he loved, to join his beloved wife Melvina.

Floyd will be remembered for his charm with the ladies, his quick wit, and the merriment he always left in his wake. He was born on June 21, 1920 in Alma, the son of Walter and Martha (Vassar) Webster. Please read an earlier article published in GTJ for more on Floyd’s courtship and marriage in the spring of 1943, as well as his overseas service in World War II, in his own words.

Floyd will be especially missed by longtime friends Peter and Connie Newell, regular contributors to GTJ. Thanks to the Newells, we now have Floyd’s remembrances to hold for posterity, as well as the following poem, written by Connie and read aloud by Peter at Floyd’s memorial service on August 19th at the Covell Funeral Home in Kingsley. Connie graciously allowed the publication of this work, for which we are indebted, as this is the fitting tribute our dear friend deserves.

The Village Elder

By Connie Newell
May, 2009

The “older” man who walks and drives
Is one who visits all
He sees on his daily travels,
And they wait for him….

With quick wit, flashing blue eyes
That twinkle before a ready joke,
He makes us laugh
Because “It makes IT better.”

And our lives get
A whole lot better
Even for a moment
And sometimes, that moment is…

All that we need
To regain our inner balance
To be able to get through
Another mundane day.

This man, Floyd Webster, has lived here
For so many years that most
Of us have no idea how many.
Because, to us, he has been here forever.

It’s not that we take his daily rounds,
His jokes, his sweetness,
For granted
It’s just that he is Floyd,

And he’ll always be here
Even if he goes to be with his wife
Who left such a long time ago
That few of us remember her.

And Someone else moves into
His perfect little white house
On Fenton Street
As clean as a whistle

With the flag blowing briskly
In the wind
And always two chairs outside
One for me and one for him.

He’s not young, you know,
Only in his heart
Where it counts, and
Let’s face it ladies, he’s very datable.

People talk about Floyd.
They say all kinds of things
Which are always good and
The community, sometimes gets scared.

“I saw Floyd today, and I
Didn’t think he looked
All that good.
Do you think he’s OK?”

Everyone watches out for Floyd,
Everyone cares.
Everyone Loves him
Because he IS the town.

He knows everything there is
To know about it
And can tell you
If you can spare a day or two.

Which is why it’s good that
We have a new library
So most of the stuff he’s collected
Has a good home.

He deserves that
Because he’s a rascal and
Rascals are hard to find
Because it takes a good man to be one.

Many eyes see him almost every day
As he buys his lottery ticket,
Though he’s already worth a million
Telling a joke or just being there

Because he makes us feel
Better about ourselves,
We hope that we can
Show that his energy was well spent.

We want him to know how
Much he is loved by this Village
And we are very grateful
That he has never left

His niche completes
Our Kingsley story.
Nope, he has hung out here for too
Long to ever say good-bye.

He knows where all the bodies are buried.
Maybe he’ll tell,
Wouldn’t that be great! I hope he does
Before he forgets where he is

And wakes up
With his beautiful wife
And they both stroll, hand in hand
And we are all unaware.

Celebrate the People

Now a Citizen…or Not: A Chinese Laundryman in Traverse City, 1898

August 1, 2015 Richard Fidler

The October 13^th edition of the Grand Traverse Herald displayed a note about a happy event:

Now a Citizen

Willie Lee, one of the proprietors of the Chinese laundry on Front street, has renounced allegiance to the Chinese empire and has the more effectually severed his connection with his native land by having his queue shorn from his head, which forever shuts him out from within the Chinese domain. The ceremony was conducted Saturday night in the Hotel Leelanau with considerable solemnity in the presence of several friends and a banquet followed. The finishing touches to the queue cutting ceremony were effected by Jud Cameron.

Willie Lee is a very intelligent celestial and for a long time has contemplated becoming a full fledged citizen of the United States and has already procured his first papers.

That short note in the newspaper calls up a number of questions. What was it like to be Chinese in Traverse City at that time? What about the shearing of Willie Lee’s queue—was that hairstyle really connected with being Chinese at that time? Did he actually become a citizen of the United States? Just a few words suggest a big story.

The Chinese in America were regarded as an oddly different kind of human being. Many wore their hair in a long braid (derisively called a “pigtail”) and dressed in clothes distinctly un-American. In China the queue was a required style for men and failure to observe the custom sometimes brought punishment. The curious word “celestial” (a Chinese person) is derived from a name for the Chinese Empire of the time, T’ien Ch’ao, the Heavenly Kingdom.

Star Laundry was a contemporary competitor of Sam Wing Kee's laundry. — Star Laundry was a contemporary competitor of Sam Wing Kee’s laundry.

We learn about the tiny Chinese community in Traverse City at the turn of the century through snippets of text in local newspapers. Willie Lee was said to be highly educated, the only Chinese person to affect a Western appearance in hair style, clothing, and general appearance. In 1898 he was said to have visited China for two years, touring the country by bicycle. Much esteemed by local people, Willie Lee was described as a generous and kind person. He gave out flower bulbs at Christmas which could be grown in dishes filled with water and stones, and distributed embroidered handkerchiefs among his friends.

An article dated January, 1909, tells us more about Willie Lee. We learn he was a splendid cook, especially skilled in preparing chop suey and bird’s nest soup, a delicacy that requires nests imported from China. Most likely the editor of the newspaper was invited to a New Year’s feast, given the writer’s enthusiastic endorsement of the food.

The laundry presented a frightening aspect to children. In 1962 Jay Smith tells about his experience visiting the place in the mid-1890’s:

About the middle of the 90’s of the past century, Sam Wing Kee came here from Chicago and rented a little building about where the Penney Store is now located, and started a laundry. He imported five or six Chinese men who did the work and the laundry flourished for perhaps ten years.

The Chinese workers could speak no English, wore native costumes and had long braids twisted about their heads. We recall very well going in there with some older person and looking out in the steamy back room where the laundering was being done, and then being mighty glad to get out alive. They scared the daylights out of us.

The cachet of foreignness frightened children of the time. Persons of a different race, different dress, different customs—all speaking a foreign language—made them want to run for their lives out of the laundry.

What happened to Willie Lee? Another article dated six months later informs us that Sam Wing Kee, better known as Willie Lee, after 14 years in the laundry business, sold out to one Lem San of Chicago. Lee was said to have taken out the necessary papers and become an American citizen, wearing American clothes and cutting off his queue. His business was successful in Traverse City and he made many friends, his success related to his hard work and earnestness. The newspaper reports he will return to California and marry “the girl he left behind him,” later planning to attend school there.

With regard to the marriage, it must have been a long wait for the couple; some 13 years he toiled in a tiny Northern Michigan town as she presumably waited patiently somewhere in China. Lee would have been in his mid-thirties when he left Northern Michigan.

Image from Frank Leslie's illustrated newspaper, vol. 54 (1882 April 1), p. 96. - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3b48680. — Image from Frank Leslie’s illustrated newspaper, vol. 54 (1882 April 1), p. 96. – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3b48680.

Former residents of the Heavenly Kingdom had a hard time in the United States in the latter part of the nineteenth century. After helping to build the transcontinental railway, completing it in 1868, they suffered a catastrophic defeat in Washington with the passage of the Exclusion Act of 1882. Passed by politicians responding to widespread hatred of Chinese workers in Western states and elsewhere, this legislation cut off immigration completely from China, even going so far as to forbid citizenship to immigrants already settled here. The Act was repealed in 1943 when the Chinese were seen as the “good” Asians (as opposed to the Japanese) during the Second World War.

Given the forces working against any Chinese getting United States’ citizenship during the 1890’s, this writer wonders how Willie Lee (Sam Wing Kee) ever became an American citizen. Was the editor of the newspaper ignorant of the Exclusion Act—or did Willie Lee have special papers made that got him around the brutal effects of the law? We don’t know.

What we do know is that Traverse City had a Chinese laundry around the turn of the twentieth century, that its proprietor was highly regarded, that he moved away to find a wife and a better life for himself. With regard to minorities of any kind, Traverse City was isolated, situated far away from larger populations to which minority settlers eventually returned. The area never had a substantial black population. Even the tiny Russian Jewish community melted away as children left for other places. Julius Steinberg’s daughters departed for Chicago, presumably to find husbands of the same religion. Traverse City never seemed to gain the critical mass required to maintain communities of diverse ethnic background. Only Bohemian and Polish immigrants stayed long enough to exert an impact on the area.

Still, we wonder what happened to Willie Lee/Sam Wing Kee. Did he achieve citizenship? Arrive in California and marry there? Go to school? Have children? We may never know. Some persons live with us only a short while, only to set sail and vanish. That is the way it was with Willie Lee.

Celebrate the People

What Goes Up Must Come Down: Life in Benzie County

July 1, 2015 admin

(This article continues a series. Please see the third and second place winners in previous issues of Grand Traverse Journal).

By Genevieve Pomerleau (center), First Place winner in the 2015 Bruce Catton Awards

Go into Frankfort, Michigan, turn west on Forest Avenue, then make a right onto Michigan Avenue, and keep going north until you reach Nipissing Street. Once you’re there, make a left and go to the end. Look to your left, and you’ll find a set of small, mossy stairs that lead to the beach. Go down the steps and walk alongside the water for a short ways north. Eventually, you will come across a small stream coming down from the sloped ground on your right.

In the summer of 2008, when I was seven years old, my brother, our friends, and I spent most of our time at Frankfort’s Lake Michigan beach there, at the stream. We would use the mud to make dams in the stream, then break them up and try to get the water to flow all the way to the lake, and we would climb up into the woods and make forts out of old logs and fallen tree branches.

One day, my friend, Ted (who was ten-years-old at the time) suggested that we climb up the hill- following the water- to see where the stream originated. We positioned ourselves on the right side of the small creek and started up the crumbling clay to the next flat area we knew of. In hindsight, we probably should have climbed on the left side so that there would have been more trees and bushes to hold onto for support. It wasn’t a very far distance, but when you’re a small child, everything seems a lot larger.

When we reached the miniature plateau, we spent a few minutes trying to get onto the flat ground. A large branch that had fallen a long time ago had caused a buildup of dirt and clay that formed a small cliff. Ted climbed up the branch and clawed onto the top; then held out his hand and pulled me up. We stopped for a moment and watched the stream flow beside us through the little canyon it had created. Across it, there was more flat ground. It was as though someone had taken a giant knife and carved a huge step into the side of the steep hill. We built most of our forts there. Right below it, the stream split into two; one going down to the area where we spent most of our time; the other smaller one going deeper north into the woods. We then stepped into it and continued upstream that way. We could hang onto tree roots coming out of the sides of the little valley, making our expedition easier.

Eventually, we reached the end (or should I say the beginning?) and found that the start of the creek was a large mud puddle. It was a gray/cream color, but clearish water flowed out of it and down the hill. We knelt down and picked up some of it with our hands. It was squishy, and felt like wet clay. I took a step toward it; then I put a foot on the soft surface. It felt hard enough, so I lifted up my other leg. Immediately, my right foot squelched through the seemingly solid ground and pulled me in with it. Just before the mud and clay completely covered my head, my toes touched the bottom. I wriggled through the murk until I reached the side and Ted pulled me out. We spent a little while playing around with the sludge, jumping in on purpose and almost swimming in the ooze. Eventually we stopped and took a break on dry ground. We both looked like some sort of mud monsters.

Ted suggested that we should keep climbing to see what was at the very top. I agreed, and we began working our way through the thick bushes and trees. After a while, the vegetation broke and we reached a wooden split rail fence. Beyond it was a well- kept yard with a large stone house resting upon it. We hopped over the fence and onto the grass. The sound of a door opening made us both jump. Ted whispered for me to run, and before I knew it we were over the fence and racing down the perilous incline. We sprinted past the mud-hole without stopping and crashed through the woods as if a bull were chasing us. When we came to the flat area, we just kept going, leaping off the cliff without thinking. It seemed a full ten seconds before we hit the ground and continued running. Gasping for air, we splashed through the stream, darted across the beach, and finally dove into the water.

We stayed there, floating in the lake, for what might have been a half-hour. We caught our breath, letting the sun warm our faces, watching the dried clay on our bodies become wet and float off into the water.

Congratulations to Genevieve Pomerleau for her excellent essay, and her first place finish! We look forward to reading more from Genevieve.

Celebrate the People

MEDICAL TECHNOLOGY A HUNDRED YEARS AGO: Dr. Elms and His Electro-therapy Bath

July 1, 2015 admin 3 Comments

In April 2015, Dr. Elms' house was torn down. In this photograph, ca. 1890s, the home is closest the the camera, set back from Union Street (far right). — In April 2015, Dr. Elms’ house was torn down. In this photograph, ca. 1890s, the home is closest to the camera, set back from Union Street (far right).

by Julie Schopieray

The recent demolition of a once lovely, large house on S. Union Street, kindled the desire to investigate the history of the home. Built before 1888, it was first the home of George E. Steele and located in the south side subdivision known as Fernwood.

In 1888, Steele sold it to real estate dealer Philip Lang. After Lang’s sudden death in 1890 (he shot himself in the basement of the home), his widow Anna married Dr. Julius K. Elms, a homeopathist and surgeon, who came to Traverse City in 1881 and practiced medicine in various villages in the Grand Traverse area. By the mid-1890s, Dr. Elms had a well established practice with an office on the upper floor of the Markham block at 129 E. Front St. A capable physician trained in Chicago, he successfully tended to the needs of the community, but, by 1898, was struggling to make ends meet, having made a risky investment which may have doomed his career in Traverse City.

On February 8, 1898, Dr. Ludwig Von Dolcke and his female assistant, Miss Hattie V. Hadley, arrived at the Park Place hotel. The doctor immediately began to run ads in the local paper, obviously written by himself, carefully worded to lure curious and desperate patients to try his treatments. “Dr. Ludwig von Dolcke, the eminent inventor of the electro-theropeutic cabinet bath, and who is termed “nature’s doctor,” is …in the city and he will be pleased to give free consultation to a limited number during the remainder of his stay at the Park Place which will not be long….” Von Dolcke had patented his version of an electric bath cabinet in 1884.

These devices were first invented in the mid-1870s, so Von Dolcke was not the first to patent one- his was an “improved version.” It was basically a large lidded wooden box with a stool and wiring connected to “electrode sponges” which were placed on the part of the body to be treated. Powered by a battery, a patient could be given various levels of electric current from mild, to as strong as desired. Holes in the cabinet allowed for employing vapor ( Russian bath) or hot air (Turkish bath) depending on the type of bath requested. The treatments were said to increase circulation, help symptoms of Brights Disease, rheumatism, dropsy, eczema and other skin affections, gout and many other maladies.

Dr. Von Dolcke’s presence in Traverse City seems to have stirred some suspicion, however. Local physician Dr. H.B. Garner had likely heard of his reputation, and questioned whether Von Dolcke had registered to practice medicine during his electric bath sessions in town. Von Dolcke was charged five dollars for violating the state law, and did register a couple weeks after arriving, claiming ignorance about having to register to practice medicine in the county.

For nearly fifteen years Von Dolcke had traveled the Midwest selling his inventions to small town doctors. A flamboyant character often seen wearing odd costumes, his credentials were sketchy at best–one article stated his medical training was earned at the University of Iceland, and another said it was in Sweden. After inventing his first electric therapy bath in 1884, he opened the Electro-Hygenic Institute in Cincinnati where he trained people (usually women) to use the devices, sending them out to sell them across the country.

He had gained a reputation across the country for making wild medical claims. He charged outrageous amounts for his electric bath cabinets, and was sued numerous times for various reasons–including practicing medicine without a license, refusing to testify in court about the death of a young woman after a botched abortion, and in 1891, inventing a scheme (which was widely covered in papers across the country) to move the entire population of Iceland (the place he proclaimed to be his homeland) to Alaska where he claimed to be working with capitalists.

Dr. Von Dolcke stated he’d traveled the world and even treated Queen Victoria and other European notables, bragging that he, himself, was a descendant of Danish nobility. In fact, no trace of the man’s heritage can be documented, nor his existence under that name before 1882. Unbelievably, in one interview he claimed he’d come to the country in 1844 as a “commissioner” to select the land in Dakota territory where a colony of 6,000 Icelanders would eventually settle. The problem with that claim is that he would have only been about two years old in 1844. His reputation was well known in Michigan since he had established practices in Grand Rapids and Detroit (and had been sued in both cities). It was no surprise that some people were wary of his intentions when he arrived in Traverse City.

The ads the Von Dolcke placed in the newspapers paper during his visit in 1898, made claims for all sorts of cures from his treatments, just as other “doctors” did with these machines since they first appeared about 1874. The most famous physician in Michigan during this time was Dr. John Kellogg of Battle Creek, whose successful sanitarium drew sufferers from all over the country. The notoriety of Kellogg, who also used a version of electric bath therapy, may have added to the surprising success of Dr. Von Dolcke’s invention. During their time in Traverse City, Von Dolcke’s female partner ran the treatments for women. Ads boasted of the success she was having with the ladies of Traverse City.

“Miss Hattie V. Hadley, came to this city a few weeks ago to introduce the bath which was entirely new to Traverse City people but it is already becoming widely known as those who first tried its health giving properties were so pleased with its success, that the good word had passed along until now Miss Hadley had nearly every hour taken with ladies seeking relief from ailments which have become chronic. Among her patients are ladies who have already experienced marvelous changes in their physical being and they cannot commend the method enough. [Traverse City Evening Record Feb. 13, 1898]

Dr. Elms seems to have been completely taken in by Von Dolcke’s free demonstrations and within a month, the paper announced that he had purchased the electric bath cabinet from Dr. Von Dolcke, who then left town as quickly as he had appeared. By April, Dr. Elms began to run ads of his own, describing the various kinds of therapies he was now offering.

Dr. J.K Elms has made complete arrangements in his rooms in the Markham block for treatment of patients with an electric bath cabinet. Men as well as women and children may have baths given them from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. Russian, Vapor, Turkish, Turko-Russian and medicated baths given to suit the patient. Mrs. Elms is in attendance and will care for ladies. The virtues of this electric method are wonderful and rheumatism and chronic diseases are banished through its influence. –Evening Record 9 April 1898.

Another article described each type of therapy offered by Dr. Elms, reassuring potential patients that each sex would be attended to by an attendant of the same gender “with the greatest possible delicacy.”

According to the Traverse Bay Eagle, Dr. Elms offered the electric bath, a Turko-Russian bath which was “equal degrees of dry hot air and pure warm vapor”, a Roman Bath “wherein the patient is exposed, first, to a gentle lubricating… warm vapor, then receives a sponge bath…followed by the stimulating and toning effect of the hot dry air bath and the various medications.” There were perfumed baths “wherein many different oils are used… oil of rose, jasmine…violets, mustard, cloves, cinnamon, etc.” There was a medicated Turkish bath “wherein the hot dry air is incorporated pregnated, charged or comingled with fumes of certain pure and specific medicinal agents, as salts, sulphur, tannin, etc., etc., which are burned, the fumes being absorbed through the pores of the skin while these are dilated by the hot air”. The Eagle cautioned readers that the baths are only administered upon the advice of and by prescription of a physician.

The Turkish bath had been practiced in the Middle East for hundreds of years and gained popularity in the West during the Victorian era. Many were established around Europe, but the kind offered in Dr. Elms’ office were obviously on a much smaller scale.

Dr. Elms’ electric bath therapy seems to have been short-lived in Traverse City. There is no mention of it after November 1898, but wouldn’t it be interesting to know how many Traverse City people tried the treatments?

Perhaps his somewhat controversial medical practices were the reason for his financial woes and frequent moves, documented in the city directories. By June 1898 he had closed his office in the Markham building and turned his Union St. home into a sanitarium, moving his electric and Turkish baths to this location, still offering the therapy sessions. In different years his offices were in Grawn and Monroe Center, but in 1900 he again returned to Traverse City and established an office in the new Wilhelm Block, on the NW corner of Front and Union Streets.

Traverse City "Record Eagle," May 1903. — Traverse City “Record Eagle,” May 1903.

By May 1903, he had even more financial troubles. His property on S. Union and 16th was repossessed and went up for sale. By 1905, Elms had permanently left Traverse City. After that time, the house must have sat unused for a number of years. In 1910 it was rented by the county to use as a temporary poor house. A new facility was in the process of being built south of town (the Boardman Valley Hospital). The Elms property offered the ideal temporary location until the new one was finished. “This building will make the most excellent and comfortable quarters for the county’s poor, as the structure is fully equipped with electric lights and a furnace and has sufficient room to care for the inmates in a proper manner.” [ Traverse City Evening Record, 24 Oct. 1910]

After the new poor farm was completed, the Elms house was sold and once again used as a residence until it was torn down in early April 2015.

By 1907 had Dr. Elms had permanently settled in Nebraska near a brother who was also a physician, and continued his practice for another twenty years. He died in 1938 at the age of 90. His life was both long and colorful.

Who was Von Dolcke?

Dr. Von Dolcke married twice, once in Canada in August 1890, then to another woman in Detroit in June 1891. Each marriage certificate listed different parents’ names for Dr. Von Dolcke. What happened to the first wife is unclear. She seems to have returned to her maiden name after 1890, and lost custody of the son she had with her first husband. She had been running a boarding house in Grand Rapids (where Von Dolcke had lived) with her husband and son, prior to marrying the doctor.

The doctor had three children with his second wife, Rose. His first child’s name was entirely fitting– Electra, born in 1892, was an aspiring opera singer but without much success. She married twice and lived in Detroit. Another daughter, Ann, married and resided in Detroit as well. His son Arthur, born in 1893, married a northern Michigan woman whose parents owned the popular Beach Hotel in Charlevoix.

In 1929 Arthur sold to a New Orleans collector of antiquities, a cane he supposedly received from his father. “…S. J. Shwartz…purchased Lincoln’s cane recently from Arthur L. Von Dolcke, of Charlevoix, Mich. Dolcke had received it from his father, who in turn had got it from a Negro janitor of Ford’s theater. An affidavit accompanying the cane relates that the janitor found it in the theater box the night Lincoln was shot and had given it to Dr. von Dolcke of Washington.” If one believes Von Dolcke’s obituary, he hadn’t even arrived in the country until the late 1870s, so he could never have been Lincoln’s physician. The description of the cane makes it extremely doubtful that it actually ever belonged to Lincoln. The features on it are suspicious and it is most likely a fraud. Lincoln artifacts were highly sought after and many fake items were purchased by gullible collectors. “The cane is a straight, black ebony stick curiously carved and inlaid and was treasured by the president as a gift from a group of friends. Just below the handle behind thick glass is “Abe Lincoln” then a carved heart and “rail splitter.” next are nine square dots representing the nine states from which slavery was abolished. Beneath is a miniature carved log cabin, a likeness of Lincoln’s birth place” (Trenton Evening Times Dec. 13, 1929). It would be interesting to know where the cane is today!

In 1909, After being charged in Ohio for practicing without a license, Dr. Von Dolcke moved to Mt. Clemens, Michigan with his wife and three children. He died of an intestinal obstruction in Detroit on August 24, 1912. His death notice in a Detroit area paper was short, but expressed his continual claim of royal heritage. “Born in Iceland, the son of a Danish earl and connected with families of the bluest blood in Europe, Ludvig von Dolcke died in his home in Detroit after a short illness. He was 70 years old” (The Yale Expositor, Yale, St. Clair County, Michigan, 5 September 1912).

Julie Schopieray is a regular contributor to Grand Traverse Journal.

Celebrate the People

WALKING IN the FOOTSTEPS OF THE PAST: Life in Benzie County by Freshman Bruce Catton Award Winners

June 1, 2015 admin

By Shianne Knoch (left), Second Place winner in the 2015 Bruce Catton Awards

There was nothing on my mind that summer morning except going to the beach. It is a few days after the fourth of July, and the town is almost tourist free. I walk down my short road known as Corning Avenue and hear the normal sounds of my neighbors’ dogs speaking back and forth to each other. I get closer to the end of the road and see some of the younger boys at my school playing basketball at Market Square Park. They yell my name and wave a hello before continuing their game. I take a left and head down M22 and walk under the big, oak trees, while being passed by people on bikes and children with ice cream running down their faces and hands, trying so hard to get the last bits of the mouth-watering ice cream. I get to the end of M22 and turn down Main Street. I walk down the uneven sidewalk and pass by Mineral Springs Park; I hear the normal sound of children yelling and screaming with joy. I leave the park behind and continue down Main Street in the little town of Frankfort. I’m greeted by many of my friends and adults. Living in a small town, you learn to know everyone and they learn to know you. I smile at every one I pass while walking and just enjoy the many sights and sounds, and even the smells that Frankfort, Michigan has to offer. I finally make it past the people and the stores overflowing with people, and as I get closer and closer to my goal, I walk that twisty sidewalk that will take me to the pier. But, I have no intention of walking down the pier.

I turn right and land in the soft, white sand. I sit and dig my feet deeper and deeper into the sand, feeling the little rocks and shells tickle my toes. I lift my head up to the sun and let its warmth consume me. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, but I awaken to the sound of Davy, a local man who lives in Frankfort. I hear him singing to himself while he picks up the cans and bottles that were left behind form the fourth. I smile to myself, knowing how happy he is. I turn away from Davy and look at the still water. It’s just sitting there waiting for someone to come and play. But I refuse its offer to come and play; and I head down to the water.

Shianne Knoch: 2nd Place, Genevieve Pomerleau:1st Place, Sam Buzzell: 3rd Place

Once you get past the first turn, and you can no longer see the pier, the beach becomes a magical place. It’s so open and untouched. It’s so alive and beautiful that you can’t look at one thing for too long, or you might miss something else beautiful. I pull up my pants so that I can walk with my bare feet in the water. As I get further down the beach, I see an opening between two trees, and in the middle, I see – a chair. I walk faster and head for the strange chair. When I approach the chair, I notice writing on every inch of the chair. There are names, dates, initials in hearts. On top of the chair, there is a date that reads 2003. Here I am in 2014, looking at a date from 2003. This chair is falling apart; it almost looks like it is weeping. One of the legs is almost torn off, and the paint is chipping. I run my fingers over the different names. As I move my hand down the chair, a piece of the arm falls off, no bigger than my fingernail. I pick up the tiny piece of wood and place it in my pocket. The wind starts to blow and I hear the whines and the creaks of the chair as the wind blows through it. I sit there for some time reading all the names. After my legs grow numb from being still for so long, I stand up and spot a marker. I put my name and the date on the chair that day. I think to myself of how crazy it is to be writing on this chair. Someone could have written on this chair this same day in a different year. I was walking in their footsteps. I leave the chair behind with my mark on it.

I went back, looking for the chair, the next year, but the chair was nowhere to be found. Instead in that same clearing, there was a small sand hill with rocks piled up on it. There were names on the rocks, and in a tree branch hanging down was a bag with a notebook and markers. Inside the notebook, were writings from people. There were dates and names just like there had been on the chair. But some people also wrote their thoughts down, leaving them for someone to find. As a tradition, I wrote my name in the notebook and signed a rock and put it with the other rocks. I noticed some names of my classmates and some local people, as well. I stepped away from the grave of the former weeping chair. I felt something poke me, and I cringed at the pain and felt tears cloud my eyes. I put my hand in my pocket and felt for the item that is bringing me pain. I pull out the piece of wood-chip. I had forgotten I had brought it with me. I look at the chip and realize what I must do. I picked up and moved some of the rocks and started to dig a hole. After the hole is deep enough, I put the last remaining piece of the chair in the hole, and I cover it with sand. I put the rocks back in their original places, and step back.

I turned around and left; looking back once as a farewell and a promise to be back next year. I’ll never forget that weeping chair and of the history it held.

Congratulations to Shianne Knoch for her excellent essay, and her second place finish! We look forward to reading more from Shianne.

Grand Traverse Journal will publish the first place winner’s essay in the July issue.

Celebrate the People

Almost Captured: Memories of John Conroy, WWII Veteran, North African combat

June 1, 2015 admin 2 Comments

John Conroy’s story as related in interviews with Peter Newell, February 2015

This month’s “Celebrate the People” honors John Conroy, US Army 1st Armored Division and longtime resident of the village of Kingsley. Conroy’s reminiscences focus on his years of service in World War II. Few of those who served remain to tell their stories; 2015 marks the 70th anniversary of the end of that conflict.

While Grand Traverse Journal typically features stories concerning our local region, we recognize the importance of recording and publishing the stories of our residents, both for future generations and for the catharsis it gives those who have served.

johnconroy25 — “I was 25 years old when drafted in 1941. Now, I am 97 and ready to re-up.”

WWII ended almost 70 years ago, so I don’t remember most of the bad stuff, but I will tell you all that I can. General Robinette’s strategies, as reported in Old Ironsides, the battle history of the 1^st Armored by George F. Howe, and assignments were at the center of coming critical battles. I was proud to serve as a sergeant in Combat Command B under his command. When he was a colonel, he often rode in my command tank on short reconnaissance missions. Young officers were lucky to serve under our experienced commander early in the war. Lieutenants like mine were being cycled through different detachments for field experience. Most had had only 90 days training as officers and were brave with hopes of glory, but were brand new to North Africa.

The Germans were about to teach all our ranks hard lessons. We had only been in battle a little more than 9 weeks, while the North African Panzer division that we would soon face had years of battle experience. Their tank armor could pierce anything we had. We were only just receiving 75mm armor piercing to replace our training shells. Only a few of us had ever worked armor in terrain that had mountains, valleys, and desert plains. Good roads with major junctions crucial to military success were formed by many impassable wadis, rivers, and soft soil. When it was dry, dusty clouds gave away troop and armored movements which was good for my reconnaissance missions and bad for infantry. Terrain knowledge, battle experience, leaders, armor, and especially armor piercing ammunition led us to terrible losses through February 1942.

After our landing near Oran, Algeria in November 1942, the following January and February 1943 held dark days for us. Faid and Kasserine Passes were two important gateways through Tunisia and would fall to the Germans. We had fought our way east into southern Tunisia only to face Germany’s best desert division, Rommel’s 21^st Panzer Division. Before those important battles, my lieutenant, with only 90 days training, commanding mine and two other light tanks, was sent to assist a small engineering troop that was repairing a bridge near Sbeitla. My rank as staff sergeant gave me no inside information to Gen. Robinette’s plans, but repair to a strategic bridge at Sbeitla made perfect sense. It is a small village halfway between the mountain passes at Faid and Kasserine. The repair of the bridge had to be strong enough to support our heavy armor that had to cross a small river bed that was more swamp than a flowing stream, called a wadi. What happened during a little skirmish was only the beginning of a series of disappointments and made me question my own value as a soldier.

As we approached the wadi, we saw a German Tiger Tank of the 21^st Panzer Division, the most feared tank in North Africa, and what looked like a full platoon of German infantry on the opposite side, which gave them about 10 to 1 odds against us. Information of Panzer movement was important to our command, but our immediate concern was the tank armed with a 75 mm cannon. While an 88mm cannon was more powerful and would pass clear through even our heaviest tank, the 75mm would pass through one armored side then rattle around and do worse damage to everything and everyone inside.

Compare the cannon bore of our Light M3 Tank on the left with the bore of the 75mm Tiger on the right. Wider track and raised cleats gave the Tiger better traction. The solid armor of the Tiger easily deflected our 37 mm cannon shot. Superior speed was our best defense.

My lieutenant was quick to order two of our light tanks straight ahead toward the Germans and closer to the wadi and then attempted to turn around in the soft sand on the side of the narrow road. Seconds later, they were both bottomed out, off the road, and stuck. His command of the situation disintegrated. With more courage than sense, the lieutenant ordered his command tank to fire two 37mm shots at the German Tiger Tank, even though neither shot had a chance of penetrating the front armor of a Tiger tank. To this day, I thank God that the German tank never returned fire.

I asked the lieutenant “Do you want me to put the grousers on the stuck vehicles?”

Grousers would improve the traction of rubber cleats in soft sandy conditions.

His next order completely baffled me and my driver as he looked at us, he said, “No. Just get the hell out of here.”

I have never before or since received an order like that. The other lieutenant also ordered two of his engineers to leave with us. Then, both lieutenants left with the rest of our men and went toward the wadi before flanking left into old and scrubby olive trees that reached a couple feet higher than our light tanks. That was last I saw of 12 lightly armed men and two lieutenants, most of whom I knew. Same outfit, same platoon, you get to know all the guys one way or another.

Instead of running away immediately, I disobeyed a direct order. I and my men waited for some sign of those who had just left. Nothing. Complete silence. We waited, watching and listening for footsteps, crackling brush, shouts, gunfire, anything. A few minutes later Germans begin to appear on our side of the wadi directly from the direction that our people had disappeared. With the enemy now flanking us, we were learning, first hand, how good the Germans were at warfare. We hit the ditch on the left side of the road and followed it toward a nearby mountain about ¾ mile away. It lay in the general direction that led back to bivouac, and had the best cover for escape. It would add days of walking, but the other options were open road or open desert. With only rocks and sand for cover, and about 30 minutes to clear the area before being captured, I chose the longer route. I figured if our buddies were still alive, we would make contact with them, because they were somewhere in the same cover we were in. 30 minutes later, we found no joy in making it safely through the undergrowth to the base of the mountain. There was no sign of our friends. Twelve good men and two lieutenants with more courage than sense were missing, and I knew that, at best, they had been captured. I never saw them again.

My medals read left to right: EFFICIENCY, HONOR, FIDELITY; AMERICAN DEFENCE; WORLD WAR II, (silver upper right) designates driver/mechanics badge, (small pin button) discharge free ride for vets or commonly called “RUPTURED DUCK MEDAL”; AMERICAN CAMPAIGN, and AMERICAN MIDDLE EASTERN CAMPAIGN. — My medals read left to right: EFFICIENCY, HONOR, FIDELITY; AMERICAN DEFENSE; WORLD WAR II, (silver upper right) designates driver/mechanics badge, (small pin button) discharge free ride for vets or commonly called “RUPTURED DUCK MEDAL”; AMERICAN CAMPAIGN, and AMERICAN MIDDLE EASTERN CAMPAIGN.

I had rank on the three men who followed me, so I was the one most responsible to get us all back to bivouac alive. January nights get cold in the Central Tunisian desert, so we were grateful to find a stack of straw to burrow into for the night. We needed rest to continue our march that could take days with limited rations. There are no straight roads in the mountains, so an hour’s travel by tank on flat ground would take us nearly three days hiking. No rank below lieutenant was given maps for fear of being captured with explicit information, so I had to guide us by point to point navigation, the same as I used growing up in rural Kingsley, Michigan.

On the second day of our march, we were still on the mountain, skirting a flat open area, when my driver spotted two men walking in nearly the opposite direction of our path. As they drew closer, we could see that they wore American uniforms. One was a ranking officer, colonel or major, accompanied by a private. I talked with him a little bit about our situation.

The officer said, “ I can’t see sending my troops into the mess that you have left just to get my men killed.”

He looked dead serious however impossible his thinking was.

I thought, “Here is this officer and a private on the flat open area of a mountain taking a Sunday walk.”

I didn’t see any of his troops, nor would he give me any more information about why they were there. He didn’t say how long he had been walking or the circumstances that got him isolated from his command. It sounded like he had pretty much lost his mind. They didn’t want to join us in getting back. It was the craziest thing I had ever seen, and I couldn’t figure out what to do with them. I didn’t have rank to countermand any real or imagined mission he had. We went on our own way. They went theirs and we never saw them again. On the third day, we found a unit of American 105mm artillery and caught a ride with them back to bivouac.

"This $5.00 bill contains the names of nearly all the villages in central Tunisia where I reconnoitered. Among them are Oran, Kasserine, Sbeitla, and Faid." — “This $5.00 bill contains the names of nearly all the villages in central Tunisia where I reconnoitered. Among them are Oran, Kasserine, Sbeitla, and Faid.”

My First Armored division had darker days ahead at Kasserine and Faid Passes. At Kasserine Pass, I was part of a reconnaissance unit that watched from the heights of a nearby mountain while Combat Command C suffered huge losses. They didn’t have anything for protection in open desert caught between two mountains with deadly German artillery concealed in rugged slopes over a mile away, but that is another story. And another story is about being pinned down at Anzio more than four months, where winning the war became more remote and less important than surviving each day.

Celebrate the People

SNOW DAY on a CLIFF FACE: Life in Benzie County by Freshman Bruce Catton Award Winners

May 1, 2015 admin

By Sam Buzzell, Third Place winner in the 2015 Bruce Catton Awards

After a long week of unrelenting snow and anticipation, it was finally a snow day. Our cousin was back from Rwanda for a few weeks, so we were eager to take the chance to spend the day with him. We ruled out sledding, our first choice activity, because of two feet of snow and ice that covered everything, and decided on climbing the Crater. In hindsight, this was probably the worst possible choice we could have made under the circumstances, because (1) the Crater is nearly 70 degree cliff covered in trees; (2) that slope is followed by another 70 degree cliff – at this time we would have to slide down because of the fore mentioned two feet of snow covered in ice. In all other aspects, it was a flawless plan.

Filled with high spirits and hot chocolate, we trudged across the field that separated us from the base of the Crater. As we walked, the weight of our boots forced us through the ice to the powdery snow beneath, with cracks that echoed through the silent forest like gunshots. After fifteen minutes of this, we reached the base of the slope and started climbing.

We started up the Crater with vigor, silent only because we were all out of breath. Since climbing the gargantuan hill without using the protruding trees as leverage was impossible, we did so, making slow and tedious progress. Every now and then, we would stop and stare at the terrifying stretch of cliff beneath us, and then at the even more terrifying stretch above. This became a pattern, until after ten minutes of climbing – we caught our first glimpse of the summit.

Our pace renewed, we reached the top in a flash – at least I did. When I say reached the top, I mean I came within five feet of it – until, suddenly, the ice started to grow more resistant to my weight. This was problematic, because the extreme angle of the slope, accompanied by the wall of dark trees, accented with the bright coats of my sister and cousin about twenty feet below me. This didn’t bother me at the time, so I kept climbing. This decision caused some problems, evident as I lifted my hand to grab the sharp ridge.

My feet started to slip; finding no purchase on the hard ice beneath them, I had nothing to hold onto as I fell back, no trees, except for the ones I was about to hit twenty feet down the slope. The glare of the sun reflecting off the ice blinded me as I picked up speed. The only indication of my location was coming from the shouts of my sister somewhere to the left, or right, or maybe up. My freefall ended abruptly with a hard impact followed by several waves of crashing snow.

I sat up, dazed, watching as the remainder of the snow slid off of the branches in small spirals. Everything was quiet for a moment; the silence was broken after a few seconds by a long bout of laughter from my sister. I looked around, trying to pinpoint the noise, and fell even farther down the slope, sending her into even more hysterics, and me into a snowbank.

I pulled myself out, laughing, and climbed up to where she and my cousin stood shaking hysterically with badly suppressed smiles. We made our way back down the slope and walked across the field to the house.

Congratulations to Sam Buzzell for his excellent essay, and his third place finish! We look forward to reading more from Sam.

Grand Traverse Journal will also publish the second place winner’s essay in the June issue, and the first place winner’s essay in the July issue.

Locally-produced digital magazine featuring nature and local history from the Grand Traverse Region.