Island Mirth

Celebrating a snowy day!

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Archived column from NorthernIslander’s “Sand in My Sheets”

- By Elaine West -

My mother headed off to the milder climate of Florida in early January. The day after her departure I startled my fellow choir members at Holy Cross by showing up for church.
 
“But you always skip church the first Sunday your mother’s in Florida,” one noted.
  
“Oh,” I told them, sanctimoniously. “That would be SO childish, wouldn’t it?”
  
“Well, yes,” they admitted. “But we’ve come to expect it. Just don’t grow up too fast.”
  
I laughed at the time, but later thought about that comment in a broader context and the way  Islanders of all ages seem to retain a child-like enthusiasm to indulge in mischief and play – and have the boundless energy to carry it off.
  
This past weekend was a good example. Snow began to fall early Saturday morning and continued throughout the day. By the next morning a blue sky was the backdrop for a spectacular cotton-candy coated landscape. Nobody announced it, no signs were posted at the crossroads in town, but everyone knew: It was a winter holiday.

I did miss the service at Holy Cross that morning despite the valiant efforts of Gordy Heiika to clear our driveway early (I think my mother may have paid him off to help ensure my eternal salvation).  However, when hubby moved his truck and got stuck on the main road he announced, “You’ll end up in a snowbank for sure. I forbid you to drive today.”

Normally I’d take him down in the dirt for a comment like that. But on this morning it was all I needed to suit up in my warmest gear, grab my camera and dog family, and head off on a trek to the Holy Chapel of Hidden Valley.
  
By noon, the humming sound of snowmobilers in the distance was very much like the drone of bees in a summer garden. Folks trooped down the road on snowshoes and a friend called to say the ice fishermen were out and about on Font Lake. Nearby Mt. Pisgah was put to good use by youngsters sledding down its slopes.
   
By late afternoon all the mittens I owned were wet, limp things. My legs burned from trudging through the deep snow and the dogs were down for the count. It was time to change tactics and partake of another particular wintertime pleasure – diving in to a stack of library books.
  
Each winter I try to read some new genres, an attempt to expand my mind a bit.  I also delve into the “regional” bookshelves at the library. These types of books, especially the novels set in northern Michigan, are always read with a healthy dose of skepticism. My reticence come from the numerous calls and emails I get from writers with questions about living on an island. Some are legitimate, from authors who need a file photo to accompany an article or to confirm a name or fact. Others are simply unbelievable.
  
Just last week, I heard from a writer who wanted to use Beaver Island as the location for her fictional story. Trouble was, she’d never been here.  In fact, I doubt she’d ever set foot on any island. “How do you get to the Island?” she wrote. “Is there a road to get there? Is there a ferry boat like in Officer and a Gentleman? Do you have stores?”  You get the idea.
    

Last year I reviewed one such book for the paper. Not exactly a Pulitzer prize winner, it was a Christian romance set on Beaver Island. Suffice to say it wasn’t the Island most of us know and love. The author’s attempt to find a spot for moments of high drama in the love story was Daddy Frank’s.

Now, Daddy Frank’s can produce a mean chili dog and stack up scoops of ice cream on a waffle cone like nobody’s business – but let’s face it: you’re lucky to find an empty table to sit at in  Daddy’s, much less a quiet place where you can gaze into the eyes of your beloved. More likely you’re apt to wolf your meal down at a picnic table outside while under the watchful gaze of hordes of malicious seagulls. I won’t even mention the name of that book…it’s best forgotten.

But on the next snowy day that comes your way, let your mittens dry out  for an afternoon and indulge in a bowl of popcorn and a really good book. That’s what I’ll be doing…see you in the spring!

Bringing in the Wood

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When my mother was an agile 73 year-old, she had a wood burning furnace to keep her island home cozy in the winter. Both my brother’s family and mine spent Christmas on the island that year and decided to bring in all the wood that “Grandma’s Place” might need…for the next three years of winter weather.

The day before our departure we assembled outside in a weird sort of assembly line. The wood was transported from hand to hand, across the yard from the woodpile to an open basement window. A wicked wind kicked in, along with freezing sleet stinging our faces. The kids whined, the adults crabbed. We sure didn’t resemble any Norman Rockwell portrait that I’ve ever seen.  “To hell with this,” my husband finally snarled. “Let’s just all kick in and pay Grandma’s way to a warmer climate.”

This vivid memory of “bringing in the wood” resulted in us installing electric heat when we built our own island home. It is economical, clean, and only requires a twirl of the thermostat to warm up a room. Yet, there’s something about a real fire that drives the frost from not only your house, but from your soul as well.

Loving fires as I do, I insisted on a fireplace in the living room – and not one of those convenient gas models. I wanted to sit on the fireplace ledge and bake my back. I longed to hear the crackle of the fire and later watch the glowing embers. I envisioned our dogs curled up in front of a blazing log, like one of those Lands End catalog photos.

 My husband is not exactly enamored by the thought of preparing the woodpile and still brings up that long ago December day when he swears he got frostbite while hauling in my mother’s winter supply. Last year we ran out of wood long before we
ran out of snow and perfect fireplace weather. I begged for my own chain saw for mother’s day but he was certain I’d cut off my foot and refused to purchase it. He did get me a little safe, dinky-sized hand saw for my trail work, but it doesn’t really “cut it” when it comes to limbs and logs with a diameter larger than about four inches.

But I had a plan for this fireplace season. Starting in early September, my daily walks in the woods have also been wood collecting missions. The windy weather has helped and the large limbs and small trees that toppled are perfect for me to drag home. The dogs even got into the spirit of the work and the Golden once picked up a large stick at the top of Mt. Pisgah and carried it all the way home, dropping it on my cache for the winter.
 
Actually, our back yard now looks as if a Beaver has a good sized lodge constructed there and my patience was at an end. “When are we cutting wood?” I demanded one Saturday afternoon. “I’ve been bringing it home for months now and we’ll soon have snow.”

Hubby shifted in his Lazyboy to glance outside at the stacks of logs. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Your mom changed over to fuel oil and she has all that perfect wood down in her basement. It’s kiln-dried by now…won’t even need much kindling.”
And so dear readers, we’ve come full circle. The wood we transported into the basement of “Grandma’s Place” has now been hauled out again – out the same basement window that witnessed its arrival so many years ago.

I’m happy about the stacked woodpile of pristine dry wood and think I’ll still be having my beloved fires from fall through the chilly, slushy spring. But there’s still the matter of my rather impressive collection of logs and limbs stacked in my back yard. So, if anyone out there knows of a homeless Beaver in search of a ready-made domicile please let me know. Have I got the perfect fixer-upper for him!

 

Guard Snake

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This “Sand in My Sheets” column ran in a 2004 NorthernIslander. The column is a regular feature of the paper.

Islanders sure do love critters. It’s universally believed that dawns and sunsets are made more beautiful with the cries of the loons overhead. I’ve seen quite a few people who have nearly run off the road to avoid a fatal collision with a squirrel or a chipmunk. If we see a turtle trying to make its way across Donegal Bay Road, many of us pull over and carry the creature to safety.

We put out apples in the winter to help the hungry deer, distribute tons of birdseed to our feathered friends and dutifully clean out the hummingbird feeders every few days. The islanders have taught me a lot about caring for the wild creatures. I’ve even gotten to like snakes…sort of.

It also helps that there are no poisonous snakes on our Emerald Isle – a fact confirmed by Dr. Jim Gillingham at CMU’s Biological Station on the Island. I’ve gone to his Museum week reptile show since God was a boy and encouraged my sons to stroke the creatures on display.
 
This year a little garter snake decided to take up residence in the rock wall next to our house. My Lab and Golden looked him over, sniffed a bit, and decided to accept him. I got so used to seeing the little guy that my flight reflexes – usually put into overdrive by the approach of a snake or spider – dulled and finally disappeared altogether. Instead of leaping onto high ground when the grass rustled, I’d peer into the greenery, trying to see the feisty little fellow.
 
Once, while trimming vines along the rock wall, my snake friend came out to investigate what I was doing. As I began to collect the clippings I picked him up by mistake. I put him down quickly, actually apologizing verbally for the error. He looked at me for a long moment to see if I was sincere, then apparently trusting me again, curled up on a nearby stone to continue overseeing my work.

Unfortunately, the runt of my canine clan, a mouthy terrier named Tory, decided the snake was a threat to our household. It kept her occupied – usually she turns he wrath upon the hapless summer visitors who bike past our place. This year she didn’t even give them a feeble yap. But she sure was irritated by the slinky little creature waiting just outside the door.

Each morning Tory would patrol the pathway, growling at suspicious areas where the snake might be hiding. I was sure his aggressive nature would drive the little fellow away. But this snake didn’t care…not one little bit. As the dog would bark and bray and howl, the snake would raise his small head, glare at the loud intrusion on his sunbathing routine, and lay back down, unperturbed.

This, of course, infuriated Tory (who can’t stand to be ignored by man or beast). She would dance around the snake in a Ricki-Ticki-Tavi mongoose dance and occasionally risk a dive at the snake, usually coming up with a mouthful of foliage instead.
 
The snake usually refused to move for humans as well. My girlfriend encountered the little bugger one day and laughed about how the tiny snake had stood his ground. She’d decided to finally step over him. “I think you should put up a sign,” she told me. “How about ‘Guard Snake’?”

We often talked to Tory about the snake, for when we’d had enough of her barking, we’d order her (in our best command voices), “Leave the snake alone!” I didn’t know that she’d assimilated the noun into her vocabulary until one night we were watching a wildlife show on TV and the adventuresome guide shouted, “Cracky, that snake is a blinger!” Tory awakened from a snooze in full battle mode, ready to take on her adversary.

The summer is waning now. And I suppose our little reptile will soon be off hibernating or whatever snakes do in the colder seasons. I think that Tory will miss all the excitement of having the little snake as a neighbor. And perhaps most surprising of all…I think I’ll miss him, too.

 

A Walk on the Wild Side

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(This column was first published in 2005. “Sand in my Sheets” columns are a regular feature in NorthernIslander.)

Many on the Island were quite excited about the possible wolf tracks discovered and cast late last spring by Jeff Powers, our island veterinarian and President of the Island’s Wildlife Club. A number of people have been intrigued by the $200 reward for a photo of the critter. I even heard of two little boys who devoted their vacation to the “hunt” for the gray wolf, armed with disposable cameras and great enthusiasm as they headed out into the woods each day. They weren’t successful in their endeavor but had a wonderful time playing explorers in the wilderness.

Although there have been credible sightings of a wolf, no one has yet captured the animal on film.  Jacque LaFreniere, who once worked at a wolf rehabilitation center, has a tape of wolves howling. She thought it would be a worthy attempt to spend an evening playing the tape in likely locations and listening for a reply. We could make a night of it, she said.

I was in. Any possibility of an outing with “the girls” always clears my calendar. I laid out the essentials – camera, box of Cheeze-Its (indispensable in a carload of women), bug spray, and soft drinks (and if you believe that last one, there’s a hippo living in the waters of Sand Bay that you should see).

Anyway, about an hour before we were to depart, I mentioned to hubby that he really ought to spray the small paper wasp nest on the side of our house. “The wasps are starting to get really annoying when I’m working in the garden,” I told him.

This former Marine takes on missions like this as though he were headed into the shores of Tripoli. Armed with his aerosol can of Bug-Be-Gone-Forever, he stalked about the perimeters of our home, blasting away at the wasps’ attempts to build condos on our roofline. I watched his attack from the safety of our living room window – encouraging him to look further for the source of the wasps bombarding my attempts to pick green beans.

My heart actually missed a beat or two as he picked up a lawn chair to get near the
the area. Underneath that chair was a HUGE paper wasp nest. And the angry insects that poured from the quarter-sized entrance hole looked like one of those clouds of bugs you see in cartoons going after Wily Coyote. I screamed an alarm, but by that point hubby was well aware that he’d encountered the enemy stronghold.

Suffice to say – although Marines never retreat – he quickly headed in another direction, followed by the relentless wasps. Eventually he was able to slide himself through the door and leave the hordes of attackers behind. Multiple stings were treated, and then I was dispatched to town to retrieve fresh supplies of canned Death-Spray that could be applied from the safe zone of our porch. He took great joy in blasting the barbed buggers and he hacked apart their headquarters with a shovel, happily noting the large numbers of casualties inside.

After all the excitement had died down and hubby was left to nurse his wounds, I finally headed off with ladies on our planned adventure. We never did hear a wolf reply to our howls. But we saw fawns skipping through the fields, laughed at a “Monarch Crossing” sign someone had posted on Barney’s lake road, marveled at the beauty of the evening and enjoyed a night of good old conversation – punctuated by munching on Cheeze-Its and Oreos. I recall thinking, “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”
  
 It’s wonderful to be able to immerse oneself in nature. Sometimes we go off into the Island’s wilds to experience it. Sometimes we can “walk on the wild side” in our own back yards.

And here’s a message for that elusive wolf: We’ll be back, armed with our tape and our cameras. Even if we don’t hear you or see you…we know we’ll have a “howling good time!”

Hello? Are ya decent?

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 (First published in 2006 in NorthernIslander).
There are probably a few homes with doorbells on Beaver Island. I don’t know of any personally and I doubt if they get much use. At many places, you don’t even enter through the front door. Some houses have “mud rooms” where you can stomp your feet – thus alerting the family within that they have company. At other homes, one knows to gain entrance through the less formal ambiance of the garage. Knocking is polite but not mandatory.

I should have known better when we built our own island home. My husband insisted on “rotating” the blueprints, so the actual front of the house faces the woods instead of the dusty road. It doesn’t confuse anyone but me. Islanders quickly learned to enter via the garage, through the downstairs den and up the steps to our livingroom.

Our three dogs don’t pay much attention anymore to the sound of the den door opening and voices yelling, “Hello! Are ya decent?” Occasionally they recognize the folks and will run pell-mell to greet visitors at the bottom of the steps. Other times, they just go on napping. You never know.

Just this Christmas we were surprised to learn we’d had some late night guests – snowmobilers who were out enjoying a moonlit cruise. One of the ladies needed a rest room and stopped in to use our facilities. At least four of us were upstairs lounging in front of the fire, but we never heard the troop below us, nor did the worthless guard dogs.

I asked one of the safari folks if they’d found the bathroom downstairs. “No,” they informed me, laughing. “We just used your garage drain!”

I was happy to learn they’d made themselves at home. I recall I was clad in some nasty old p.j.’s that night – not the kind of outfit you want to be seen in whilst entertaining.

 Because of our “backward” house, I’ve gotten caught more than a few times in less than formal wear. Writing at home allows me to work in my little office wearing anything I darn well please. One muggy August day, I took advantage of that benefit and typed away until well into the afternoon, dressed in a scanty little outfit resembling a Las Vegas showgirl costume. But hey, it was lightweight and helped during that hot and humid weather. By the time I could react to impending visitors, an old friend was standing in my kitchen (along with four of her pals I’d never met before). There was no time to change or even dive into a robe. To their credit, not a one even raised an eyebrow at my attire and I dispensed drinks and snacks with a great deal of poise, I think.

Recently, another group took full advantage of gaining entrance to the house without us seeing them. It was our turn to make dinner for our “Diner’s Club,” a group of four couples who take turns cooking gourmet meals for one another during the bleak winter months. Hubby and I had been slicing and dicing all day and just had time to throw on clean jeans and sweaters before our guests would arrive for appetizers.

I should have known something was up when the dogs heard voices below and went to investigate. The poor beasts came back cowering and whining – they’d spotted
something seldom seen in our house: dinner guests who were dressed to the nines.

Two of the ladies had formals on. I’m surprised they weren’t sporting wrist corsages, probably just an oversight. One cousin had her hair as bouffant as a prom queen. The men were in three piece suits and ties, one portraying Alister Cook – complete with a pipe and brass-topped cane. I have a picture of them, but they swore retaliation if I published it…and with this group you’re never sure what they might do.

   I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of not knowing who I might meet in my own house. There’s no point really in installing a doorbell or a knocker or a gong. Folks are just having too much fun coming in the back way. I do have one request, through. I’d sure appreciate visitors shouting out, “Hello! Are ya decent?”  Just don’t be surprised if I yell back “No!”

An Island Graduation

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Party-Planning Blues: It’s Graduation Time on the Island
(This column was written in June of 2003 – my first experience with being the parent of a Beaver Island Community School Graduate).

You might think planning a high school graduation party on Beaver Island would be a simple matter. Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth! First of all, we parents of this year’s grads had to deal with the staggering number of them – eleven in all, one of the largest classes ever! Perhaps you’re thinking, “Just eleven? That’s not so many. Our high school has hundreds of graduates each year.”

Ah, yes, that’s true. But you must understand that by tradition, island graduations require the plotting and planning of a major celebration. We’re not talking just cake and punch here. We’re talking about parties that fall somewhere between a coronation and the installation of a new pope.

We parents did grapple with the novel idea of holding one, gigantic community party. But small groups or individual parties seem to be the order of the day. You quickly learn to pick your battles on the island and the concept of a single party was too revolutionary and not worth the fight.

There is always one afternoon set aside for all the parents and graduates to get together for a lengthy session to update the island’s mailing list and address the invitations to the ceremony. A snatch of a conversation at that gathering will give you an inkling of the intricacies involved in attempting not to offend a single person in this small, close-knit community. God forbid anyone should have the horrifying experience of not receiving the formal invitation.

 “I’d like to send out an invite to this gentleman,” said one mother, pointing at a name in the massive, 15-page phone book.
 “Well, that would be quite a trick,” snapped another parent. “He’s been dead for two years!”
  
 
Suffice to say that after a vote was taken, the deceased individual’s name was removed from the mailing list. Then an assembly line was formed to insert name cards for each grad, their senior photos, and invitations to each of the separate parties. Sometime a map was also included if the house was somewhere in the hinterlands of the island.

The resulting bulging initiations resembled one of those sweepstakes packets you get from Publishers Clearing House. In any event, after only about seven grueling hours, the invites were ready for mailing. We could now turn our attention to the details of planning the individual events.

Timing your party is critical. Careful coordination in this realm allows the festivities to start immediately after the 1:00 p.m. ceremony and continue the feasting until about 9:00 p.m. that evening. The island party-goers basically caravan from one event to the next, overlapping their attendance at the each party. It’s funny how often your end up at a table filled with the very same people throughout the entire day. Conversations you started at party #3 or #4 can be continued in depth at party #7 or #8. Continuity is important.

Menus are important, too. Rumors of shrimp or rib roasts can lure coveted guests to your event, ensuring that all the ham and potato salad actually served will be consumed so your family is not relegated to eating the left-overs for the next three months.

Gordon’s Foods really ought to contribute a swimming pool or some other major facility to the island, for their convenient party snacks are consumed in great quantities at our graduation parties. Islanders have spent mucho bucks at their establishment in Petoskey. Food for thought, Gordon’s.

Locations for the events are usually at the home of the grad, but occasionally another spot is selected. Thankfully, I was part of a small group who decided to go together on a party. We three mothers made a quick and rational decision that none of us wanted to clean our homes in preparation, so we chose the pavilion out on Donegal Bay. It has a beautiful view of the lake, a volleyball court for the kids to enjoy, screens to keep out the bugs, and best of all a cement floor that can be hosed down after the last celery stick has been consumed. Martha Stewart be damned!

I must run now as I’ve 400 deviled eggs to prepare. Hope to see you all on Graduation Day. Don’t wait for that party proclamation to arrive in the mail, consider yourself invited. We’ve got some potato salad waiting with your name on it!

 

In Relentless Pursuit of Morels

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It’s not like we lay about on our sofas all winter eating bon-bons. The island is a bustling little community all year long, with residents busy in their endeavors. But as soon as the snow melts and sunshine invades ourSand in My Sheets by Elaine West homes (and hearts) earlier each morning, we go into what I term full fledged egg-beater mode. That is, we attached that kitchen implement to our posteriors and start moving faster and faster toward the summer ahead.
There are a number of “rites of Spring” that propel us toward the season of visitors and a calendar packed with activities. Community members gather in large numbers for the Road Rally, the Citizen of the Year Banquet and the Easter Brunch at the Christian Church. One springtime ritual is the relentless search for morels, which happens each May.
Now, I’m talking morel mushrooms here. A year or so ago, someone not familiar with the island read that islanders were not finding many morels. This individual thought the word in question was “morals,” and wondered what kind of God forsaken place this was if the residents were having a hard time finding examples of “good and proper conduct.” They were greatly relieved to find out it was just edible fungus that was lacking in our community.
This year, in spite of the lack of springtime rain, morels raised their bumpy little heads in a population boom. Those who live and die for the few weeks of consuming the delicacy were happy campers, to say the least. They also have a tendency to be downright hostile if asked where they found a patch of the mushrooms. The successful morel hunter guards the location of their find as though it were a national treasure.
My hubby was taken aback when a normally nice person refused to even discuss the terrain a morel might thrive in. He came home from the encounter determined to go hunting himself. Armed with a little sack, he headed out into the woods near our house.
To my surprise, he was quite successful in his search. For a man who has difficulty locating our vacuum and can never find the stash of toilet paper to put on the roll, he did quite well in spotting the fungus in the brown/brown color scheme of spring. He returned in an hour with enough morels to make a nice side dish for a night or two. At dinner, he ate more than his share of the little buggers, but boy, did he pay for it.
Apparently, some people can have a rare but unpleasant reaction to the mushrooms. After about 24 hours of an intense flu-like condition, he was feeling pretty bad. And I, not exactly Florence Nightingale when it comes to dealing with an ill husband, tried to stencil DNR on his arm while he napped. (In this case DNR does not stand for Department of Natural Resources, but rather Do Not Resuscitate).
I was not totally unfeeling about his condition, however. Not wanting to have a repeat performance, I decided to take the remaining mushrooms back to the wild where they belong.
Armed with my walking stick and escorted by my canine clan, we searched the woods for a perfect spot. I felt a little like Mother Nature in that old margarine commercial; skipping through the forest and ready to scatter the spores of the morels in a likely location.
We won’t know of my success until next spring. But if I were a morel, I’d love the place and would thrive there in great and multiplying numbers. It’s not that I want to EAT the rubbery mushrooms. I just want poor hubby to be able to glare back triumphantly at another fungus hunter while he clutches a cloth bag full of the gnarly little things.
And if hubby DOES try to consume them again (he’s stubborn and I bet he will) just please remember what DNR really stands for. That’s it for morels…or morals, as the case may be!

Elaine West’s “Sand in My Sheets” – a humorous look at life on Beaver Island – appears each month in NorthernIslander.