Memories of Barbara Birge Wiseman


In the late 19th century when the Pere Marquette Railroad laid its tracks from Chicago and Detroit as far north as Petoskey, Michigan it opened a vast and largely unpopulated area to residents of the river valleys of the middle west who sought to escape the suffocating heat and humidity of their summers. The logging industry had visited that country previously and had wantonly relieved it of its splendid virgin hardwood forests, leaving the sandy soil of upper Michigan to stumps and fireweed.
 
Both pairs of my grandparents bought property in Charlevoix, Michigan on land terraced by retreating glaciers from which there was a commanding view of Pine Lake, (now Lake Charlevoix). The town was divided by a small land-locked harbor called Round Lake. On its eastern shore a channel bridged by the railroad led into Pine Lake; similarly, from its western shore another channel bridged by Main Street, led to Lake Michigan. My Birge grandparents built a home on the Belvedere Club grounds on the southern side of this intervening body of water. The Riddles built on its northern side. (George Riddle’s brother, Truman, had a home on the adjoining property). lt was in the George Riddle home that l was born.
 
Both of these residences were spacious, gracious and handsome and during the three months of summer continually occupied by a series of contented relatives of all generations who mingled together in happy harmony. The delicious fragrance of birch and pine wood which lined the interior walls and the cheerful cretonnes covering the wicker furniture gave a warm welcome. Both houses had broad porches for sun or shade, fragrant fireplaces to take the chill from the rainy days, one bedroom on the first floor, five on the second, and several on the third to house a corps of servants, trunks and other assorted items. Especially splendid were the full bathrooms on each of the three floors. A cook and a maid or two were always in residence; a local laundress toiled several days weekly, lugging an offensive bundle to her own home then returning it in neat folds redolent of fresh air and sunshine. The chauffeurs lived with their families in boarding houses in the town.
 
Every summer during my first twenty years was spent healthily and happily in Charlevoix, Michigan. My Father's parents had made available to us a wonderful cottage on the upper terrace of the Belvedere Club. Though it was a sacrifice for our parents to endure the long separation (father could be with us for only two weeks of the season), we children could hardly wait for mid-June to roll around when we travelled north to that bright exhilarating land.
 
Whether from St. Louis, Anderson, or Cleveland, a day-long train ride followed by a night on a Pullman sleeping car preceded our early morning arrival in Charlevoix. We slept as little as possible since it was so exciting to look out on the strange darkened landscapes sliding past our windows and to check on our progress as we rushed through the lighted stations, bells clanking stridently as we rolled over the street crossings. Occasionally the break of day would find us still only in Cadillac or Traverse City, and we knew it could be several hours before we reached Twin Lakes when we would explode into frenzied action, put on our hats and coats and gather up the luggage assigned to us for the stop at the Belvedere. In the early days, before we made the trip by automobile, Mr. Eagleton would be at the station to meet us with his open bus which boasted long benches facing each other. A flat-bed wagon drawn by two weary horses was loaded with our suitcases, trunks and bicycles and when, after our breakfast we heard the crunch of iron wheels toiling up the hill, we rushed out to claim our bicycles and ride off. We had to see if our favorite haunts were just as we remembered them; which friends would be around to welcome our return, and which cottages would still be boarded up, showing little promise of soon housing their owners.
 
A Mr. Brown and his minions had our cottage clean and orderly for us, having swept out the cobwebs of winter and evicted the squirrels, mice, bats and spiders which had taken refuge there during our absence. The sweet fragrance of the untreated birch walls gave us their special welcome, yet the precious freedom we had to roam in any direction lured us out of the house almost as soon as we went in. Our first destination was the ravine, a lovely semi-wild wooded area with manicured paths winding invitingly through it. An exciting sport which challenged our cycling skills was to start downhill from the highest spot and gather speed while still maintaining equilibrium on the treacherously sandy, rutted and root-strewn soil. The west end of this woodland opened into a sunny meadow, fragrant with timothy grass, wild daisies and clover and many a languid summer hour was spent there, living out our fantasies while sharing our picnic lunches with friends. The east end of this friendly forest had been carved into a deep and rugged valley by the glaciers bulldozing their way through the primeval landscape, and there the trees were larger, denser and older and through their leafy tops a rustic bridge had been erected - an alluring and gently curving structure with a floor of wide and well-weathered pine boards and railings fashioned into graceful lacings of pine boughs. ln the center of this bridge was a square shelter with benches on three sides where we could hide or dream the fairy-tale dreams of children or simply rest up for further exercise.
 
Pine Lake was, of course, a place we longed to visit but the need to get there quickly was not urgent since we were forbidden to go into the water until we had been “acclimated" to the brisk northern air for three long days. I know it was a nuisance for all of our mothers to straggle down to the dock every day to keep an eye on us as we frolicked about in the shallows, and as we grew older and more daring to clumsily experiment with fancy dives at the deep end of the pier, it must have been harrowing besides. It was, however, the daily pattern of our young lives from 3 to 4:30 and we cared not at all that the mothers could never enjoy a coherent conversation with each other since their attention had to be riveted on the noisy group of small “polliwogs" thrashing about in the water. Our cottage was centrally located on the upper of the two natural terraces, and located strategically at the head of a large oval park where every night youngsters from all over the resort gathered to play "Run, sheep, run” or "sardines" or just plain “hide and seek? Twin majestic oaks across from us were always home base and this was, in a way, a disadvantage for us since it was easy for mother to spot us when it was time to go to bed. But this twilight event was a wonderfully healthy way to burn up our remaining stores of energy and the freedom we tasted in the dwindling hours of daylight infused the exercise with a tingling touch of excitement.
 
My father's parents, Mary and Julius Birge, had a lovely home which l could reach in less than one minute since running downhill gave me added speed. The only times l ever felt unwelcome there were when I appeared too often at the breakfast hour. On early impromptu visits l was invited to pull up a chair and join the family. I was treated to the most heavenly strips of crisp bacon and hot toast with honey, no matter that l had just finished a perfectly satisfactory breakfast at my own home. On subsequent visits, however, I noticed a declining lack of enthusiasm for these 8 A.M. appearances and no refreshments were offered, so l got the message. Our cousins, Jerry, Kay and Buddy Carrier, children of my father's sister, Ada, spent their summers in this home, and as their ages corresponded closely to ours, we had wonderful times together.
 
Grandfather, particularly, was eager to open our eyes to the world outside our own orbit and he was always planning special activities for us in which he happily participated. On the Fourth of July when the sun did not set until almost ten o'clock he invited us all to the Pine Lake beach for a marshmallow roast and a thrilling display of fireworks which hissed and exploded in a blaze of colors before plunging to watery extinction. He organized excursions across the lake to explore the unsettled woodlands where wild creatures, small and large, lived undisturbed by the reach of man. On crisp, clear nights when the Aurora Borealis could be seen trailing its gauzy, pastel veils across the northern sky, he climbed the hill to our cottage to rout us out of bed. Then he took us to the lake where, shivering from awe and a brisk north wind, we had a clear view of the celestial extravaganza. Most of all we loved the cool or rainy days when we would sit around the grate fire in his cozy living room while he told us of his life as a boy in Wisconsin; when the country was wild and empty and Indians were their close neighbors. ' From the time when l was about 8, my playmates and l had the use of a sturdy, bulky rowboat named the "Barbara," and if we wore life-preservers and avoided the churning currents of the channel, we could row her over to the shallow water of Pine Lake's shores to a quiet lagoon just off the bathing beach. There we whiled away many a summer hour catching tadpoles from its mushy banks and swinging from the splintery supports of a rustic bridge which arched over the pool, then splashing into its tepid depths 3 feet below. As we grew older we were permitted to cross the treacherous currents of Round Lake to ply back and forth to a much more challenging lagoon which belonged to the Chicago Club. Before civilization had arrived in the north country and revised much of Nature's handiwork, this now languid channel had been supplanted by a newly dredged opening which would permit large boats and an occasional barge to pass through on their way to serve the lumber industry at East Jordan or Boyne City. We had been warned never to be boisterous during our expeditions to this abandoned lagoon to disturb the quiet of the dignified settlement of which it was a part. We often wondered sorrowfully why none of the children of this exclusive enclave never came down to enjoy the pleasures we found there.
 
In Bob Miles’ nostalgic book on Charlevoix, a special event is pictured._ The date is August 12, 1915, my eighth birthday and I can count nineteen posing atop the mound of hay on a wagon pulled by a horse. No doubt there were others who eluded the camera. Marshmallow roasts on the beach were always well attended and when we became too sophisticated for the simple outdoor affairs, an evening at the movies was “in? lf father were in residence he might collect a group of ten or thirteen to cruise across Pine Lake in the Ada B. for a picnic party on Oyster Bay where we would paddle barefoot on its fine sands or swim in the placid waters of the narrow bay. We searched unsuccessfully - and fearfully - for the patch of quicksand where, legend had it, a pleasant young man was sucked to his death while his sweetheart stood by and watched him disappear. But the Ada B. was a cantankerous vessel and a trip in her necessitated a whole day of father's precious time, which he spent in the boatyard to clean off her spark plugs, adjust the gadgets like the carburetor and the “mixture? and bail out the gallons of water which had seeped aboard during her somnolent months. When he finally coaxed her into action and picked up the chosen passengers at the dock, we sat in a timid circle around the perimeter of the boat facing the smelly, steamy, greasy black hulk which was its engine, and as we chugged bumpily through the water we dared not change our location for fear of lurching against the odious super heated monster which dominated the entire hull. Few tears were shed when the Ada B. burned and sank during a fire in her boathouse. '
 
The highlight of every summer was when father joined us for his two weeks of vacation. There were many special pleasures we saved for those occasions and most of them were arranged around the things father loved to do - picnics in our favorite woodlands or journeys to the secret places where we did not venture without his guidance. One regular annual expedition was a hike and picnic at One Mile creek - a languid, crystal clear stream with a sandy bottom, iron-tinged to a bronze color which flowed into the western shore of Pine Lake through a lush glade of birches and tamaracks under which grew delicate pink lady's slippers and blue fringed gentians. A feature of the menu on these trips was one orange and one peppermint stick for each customer. After we had eaten our sandwiches the candy was inserted into the center of the fruit and finally after vigorously sucking, the juice bubbled up through the candy. 
 
Father loved to ride out to the South Point in the early evenings to watch the huge orange globe of sun sink into the sapphire depths of Lake Michigan, already on fire with the blazing colors on its surface. While he and mother watched the after-glow we children had a rock-skipping contest, the main benefit of this exercise being the energetic search made up and down the beach for flat stones. Other nights we would tempt fate by playing "rock-tag)’ a very tricky game in which we leapt from one boulder to another in the shallows just off shore, hoping to dodge the slippery green slime which cascaded like wet wigs from the often submerged rocks. There was seldom an evening when one of us did not fall in, since that was the main purpose of the game, although maneuvering for a soft landing was important; the alternative was cracking one’s skull on a boulder. No matter that we were in Charlevoix for a vacation, breakfast was always at 7:45 and no one was served until everyone was present and dressed for the day. The meal was always an interesting one because of the numbers and variety of callers who came to our door. A farmer with fresh vegetables made his way around the park drive to the kitchen door where mother and our current maid would decide on the menus for the next two meals. In cherry season, growers came up from the Traverse City area with boxes of this plump purple delicacy and red raspberries, both cultivated and wild, and freshly picked were brought by Nick Jaworski, a cheerful young farmer with a thick foreign accent. Timid little flower girls carried straw baskets overflowing with fragrant bunches of field flowers: daisies, bachelor's buttons, black-eyed susans, and sweet peas from the dunes, and 15¢ worth would fill a large vase. A small bunch of nasturtiums cost a nickel, and for a quarter there were gladiolas, delphiniums, petunias and, sometimes, roses. Most of the “resorters" never bothered to have gardens because hollyhocks and poppies, once planted, continued to brighten a small plot of ground. . Occasional visitors at this early hour were the Indian family who laboriously toiled over our roads in a crude wooden wagon with heavy iron wheels which ground the pebbles and sand into the thin macadam surface with a most irritating grating noise. The wagon was pulled by an elderly mule, which had to be pushed to get it in motion again. There were several Indian communities in northern Michigan at that time, most of them stranded clusters of the Ojibway and Potawatami tribes who hunted and fished in the lakes and forests and in the short summers coaxed stunted crops of corn and squash from the unyielding rocky soil. During the long rugged winters they produced artifacts from the elements provided by their natural surroundings and the income from this source was probably the only money they ever had. As the wagon ground to a stop in front of our cottage, the father remained seated on the raw wooden board in stoic disinterest as the mother and little girl, who was about my age, seven or eight came to our door. The mother, though fat and unkempt had a shy dignity about her, and the daughter was graceful and slender with great black eyes and a ready smile. Her knowledge of English made her the spokesman, and she told us that her name was Susan Green-Sky-Hill. On our porch, they deposited their bundles (sheets folded to become bulging bags) on the floor and from this miscellaneous clutter we made our selection. There were baskets, large and small, of woven reeds and willow, and boxes which would remain fragrant for years with the smell of sweet grass. Other boxes of various shapes and sizes were intricately fashioned of birch bark and porcupine quills, the quills often dyed and woven into geometric patterns. These homely artifacts were so cheap to buy that they were regarded as of little value; yet what there are left today are collectors’ items and in museums.  One year the wagon arrived and a small boy accompanied his mother to our door. When my mother inquired about Susan, the child told her that Susan had been leaning out of the schoolhouse window when the peg holding it open had slipped loose, and the window had fallen across her neck, killing her.
 
On August 9, 1917, we awoke to the news that mother was not feeling well and, so as not to disturb her, we were sent to the home of her parents, across the channel, for the day. We always loved these visits since one or more of mother's sisters spent their summers there with their children and we enjoyed the special games we played with our cousins, whose ages matched ours. Late that afternoon when we returned home we were told that we had a new little sister whose name was Lane Patrick, honoring my father's mother. I recall nothing more of that momentous occasion, no doubt because I was too absorbed in anticipation of a much more important date for me; my tenth birthday three days hence.
 
The hotel on the Belvedere Club grounds was a grande dame in the tradition of late victorian simplicity, built before the efficient use of space was dreamed of, and occupied quietly by the older gentry who, seeking to escape the grinding heat of the midland summers, travelled to one place on the map and stayed there. We children understood that we were too untamed to appear in the hushed lobbies unless we had an authorized reason to be there. Yet, at the far reaches of this rambling structure there was a ballroom where savages like ourselves were sent to be exposed to some of the basic refinements of civilized society. One of the mandatory activities was a ballet class, conducted by the Misses Travis, ladies who l thought too elderly to be so sprightly, yet l see now that they were in their 30s. 0n Thursday nights, however, we girls looked forward to dressing up in our party finery for an 8 to 9 o'clock sample of the grown-up world of ballroom dancing. About 4 in the afternoon, mother called us in to wrap our poker-straight dark, damp hair in rags, and the resulting solid, fat sausages of white sheet strips bounced up and down on our heads until 7:30 when she unveiled the ten inches of spring brown ropes. The girls always looked forward to this evening of glamour even though we had to whirl around with each other most of the time for there were few boys who relished this kind of punishment.
Our real enthusiasm, however, was for the Sunday evening Song Service for which our motley group turned out in rude anticipation, sitting ourselves down in the choicest seats and waiting with unaccustomed patience through the religious exhortations when, through a perfectly legitimate maneuver, we could disrupt the proceedings lt was the "custom for the leader to close the service by requesting a favorite hymn, and if a pious old lady in the back row did ask for something soulful like "Father in Heaven who Lovest all" she was never heard, because with one raucous voice we heathens all hollered for Number 207! For some ghoulish reason we connected this hymn with our abuse of boating privileges, and we offered up the chorus with maximum decibels. "Throw out the lifeline, Throw out the lifeline' we shouted; “Someone is drifting awayl" Though our rudeness certainly merited immediate dismissal, our elders put up with it for several weeks, hoping, no doubt that some small seed of piety would spring from the rich field of the Christian ethic to which we had given polite attention during the previous hour. Summer was the only season of the year when the draughty old monstrosity at 311 West Twelfth Street ’ was bearable to live in, but during those months father was the only one who could appreciate the now- refreshing currents of air which we struggled so fruitlessly to avoid all winter long. Thus he was ever alert to improve our living conditions; so when a more modern home across the street became available, he wasted no time in buying it. This utter abandonment of the comfortable strictures of Victorian prudery presented both the parents and young people with the need to re-evaluate the under-pinnings of their inbred beliefs, forcing them to operate in random fashion under the individual philosophy of "Let your conscience be your guide!’
 
If my parents ever worried about coping with an eldest daughter who stayed out too late too often doing too many immoral things with too many "fast" suitors, they were indeed worrying needlessly, for my deportment was not only vintage Victorian, it was downright dull! The doorbell rang not, neither did the telephone. l not only had no "IT” l didn't know what “IT" was. I brought up the rear of this righteous rebellion, content with the simple pleasures of generations before, and l plodded through my high school days with blinders on my eyes and dead weights around my feet. My romantic life consisted of prosaic letters received from Charlevoix beaux. Rudolph Valentino, the current idol of the silver screen, whose droopy eyelids as he surveyed the langorous ladies of the desert harem did strike a small spark in my latent feminity. But my sexual equipment was still too dry to catch fire. One of my most daring indiscretions was to sneak out of Mary institute one afternoon with several other sheik-struck students to attend the 2 P M. matinee at a local movie theatre. During the course of our hero's galloping around the sandy landscape of Araby he barreled into a group of langorous veiled maidens, flung out a manly arm, swooped up one of the beauties, slung her across the saddle and disappeared with her over the desert horizon into the mysterious land of live-happily-ever-after. This was all heady stuff for a virtuous school girl, but it represented no more to me than a grown-up fairytale in pictures. The matinee idol who really tugged at my heartstrings was Richard Barthelmess, a bungling, clod-hopping farm boy whose honest innocence reaffirmed my own dedication to clean living unadulterated by the insidious temptations of sex, cigarettes and disobedience.   
 
We had friends who were not allowed to read funny papers on Sunday which meant that by the time Monday rolled around they no longer really cared what mischief the Katzenjammer Kids were up to, or what new disaster had befallen Mutt and Jeff. Nor were they permitted to do work of any kind; they couldn't knit, or sew on a button, or clean out a closet, or do their homework or, even more sinful, attend a movie! Our rules, thank goodness, were much more liberal and we could enjoy each other's company over a game of Rook or Old Maid or Authors all of which had their special card decks and therefore could be used for nothing else. Regulation playing cards were taboo, however, since they could be used for gambling. On certain Sundays when my immediate family was free from the succession of childhood scourges which beset us through these growing years, permitting all seven of us to attend church at the same time, for the comfort of all concerned, one or two would be promoted to the prominence of a seat with my grandparents. One particular day Nan, age seven, and I, age twelve, were holders of this privilege - an honor which made me feel six feet tall, but to which my sister was crassly insensitive. l truly believe that unto me that day, and in that pew, was born my sense of social consciousness which, weak and puny though it was cried out lustily for nourishment. This was amply furnished by my sister in the form of a continuous rattling of the program, and although I nudged her repeatedly and warned her that she was disturbing the peace of the whole congregation, she turned her big brown eyes to me in defiance and continued rustling her paper. whereupon the force of this new element in my personality would no longer be denied, and taking possession of my better judgment, caused me to deliver to the cantankerous child a sturdy pinch on the thigh. This immediately generated a series of sobs and twitches which grew in intensity with all further efforts of mine to suppress them. My grandparents’ attention, meanwhile, had been riveted in determined concentration on the sermon. Finally when the situation became too disruptive to ignore, grandfather rose impassively and taking the miserable, snivelling little brat by the hand, he led her out through the front of the church in full view of the entire assembly. l remained, shrinking as far out of sight as possible, aflame with humiliation and frozen with misery; yet sustained by the assurance that my actions had been for the good of all. Later, when l approached my grandfather for some solace, he turned his kindly blue eyes on me and said. "Barbara, l could not be proud of you this morning?
 
During our summers in Charlevoix, when Freda and l had reached our teens we demanded freedom beyond the confines of the Belvedere Resort boundaries. We wanted to go to the movies in town, and if a friend could command the use of an automobile (there was a Dort, a Ford flivver and a Stutz Bear-Cat available occasionally) we would cruise to Petoskey to browse through the tourist shops and buy ourselves a 15¢ ice cream soda. We wanted to go to the Thursday night dances, with or without an escort, to dance together if necessary. We wanted to sniff the heady perfume of romance at moonlight marshmallow roasts on the beach. and we wanted to be done with the plodding pace of the Barbara for our excursions on the lake. we yearned instead to glide over the deep blue waters silently in a canoe. Because of our natural giddiness it was agreed that all of our teenage crowd must pass certain tests before being allowed to launch ourselves on the treacherous waters, and my Uncle Stanley, father's youngest brother - unmarried and delightfully available - was pressed into service to qualify us for this responsibility. His formula was to invite two of us to paddle around with him for a while. Then, when he pointed out an interesting area of the shoreline and riveted our attention on descriptions of its history or  natural characteristics, he would suddenly give a lurch to starboard, upsetting the delicate balance of the canoe sufficiently so that all occupants would find themselves flailing about in the water. Uncle Stanley would calmly tread water until the two pupils managed to right the boat and hoist themselves back aboard, then he would climb back in. The time when I was subjected to this treatment, although we had successfully reinstated ourselves, we had neglected to retrieve the paddles which the waves were rapidly sending downwind, so we were made to plunge in again to prove that we could get the whole act together.
 
We were hampered considerably by the regulation which insisted that we be fully dressed, shoes and all, with a bathing suit underneath. Bathing attire in those days could weigh two or three pounds dry, so when wet the added weight demanded a great deal of stamina to stay afloat. One of the highlights of the Charlevoix summers was the arrival, at 8 AM every Thursday morning, of the SS Manitou, one of the majestic cruise ships then plying the Great Lakes. She was on her way from Chicago to Mackinac Island, a tiny outcrop of land jutting into the turbulent Straits of Mackinac between Lake Huron and Lake Michigan. Once a season we were treated to a glorious voyage on this elegant vessel. and once a season all the “help” on our resort would also enjoy this day-long cruise. We disembarked for the ritual journey around the island to visit the old tort built during the Revolutionary War; passed the sumptuous homes which presided proudly over sunny lawns among the luxuriant hardwood trees and fragrant pines. Back at the harbor we browsed in the souvenir shops, buying lndian~made porcupine quill boxes, and sweet grass baskets, beaded belts and jewelry, always saving enough cash (the 75¢ which we called "pimple" money) for the pound of rich fudge whose recipe is still used in shops around the country today. Then, in the brilliant glow of sunset when the sapphire waters were glazed with the sheen of rubies and topaz, we glided gently into the Round Lake harbor. One Thursday morning. emboldened by the new expertise from Uncle Stanley's canoeing course, Freda and I decided to challenge the Manitou -- to what we didn't know. but our purpose was sheer exhibitionism. We launched ourselves into our frail craft as soon as we heard the great ship's three bellows to command the Main Street bridge to open for her, and we bobbed about quietly in the still water until the ship had come to within a few yards of us. Even though we had been increasingly awed by the size of the proud vessel as she loomed higher and higher above us, we deliberately swung the canoe about to take its wake broadside. She was hardly moving and had thrown her lines to the dock below, but the power of her great rudders produced such a turbulence that we were capsized into the swirling flood. There was a cry of “Man overboard!" from a spectator on the ship and soon the rail was lined with passengers enjoying the sight of two dazed maidens, struggling to swim out of the whirlpool while groping for paddles and canoe, both of which were swirling in orbits of their own. Several Coast Guardsmen on duty had observed our predicament and added to the ignominy of it by shouting, “Come on girls! You can make it!” When we had finally conquered all of these adverse elements and were once again installed in our perfidious craft, cheers went up from all the onlookers. We waved weakly in response but paddled as briskly as we could in the other direction.
 
The threat of fire was an ever-present concern among the residents of the Belvedere community. Most of the cottages were of wood which had so dried out during the decades of exposure to sun and ice that they were as explosive as old pine needles. A spark on a decaying shingle roof or through a crack in the chimney behind the heavy black cast-iron stove could reduce a home to ashes in minutes. One day during father's annual vacation visit, we were sitting at the luncheon table salivating over the delicate aroma of the fresh blueberry pie which had been baked in his honor and which was at present being served. The raucous wail of the town's fire sirens broke the stillness of high noon. We held our breaths as the sinister screams climbed seven times - the alarm for the Belvedere Club! The pie was forgotten (by all but mother who had learned to sit placidly through such upheavals) as we rushed out through the doors, each of us going in a different direction to scan the heavens and get some clue as to where to start running. Art had gone through the kitchen and the back woodshed and Nan signaled from the park that Art was hollering and pointing toward the woods. The bicycles which had been scattered about the front lawn during the noontime break were mounted, and because I was the fleetest of foot father commandeered mine, leaving me to churn my long legs into motion to keep up. Within minutes we had gathered near an old cottage at the edge of the woods where flickers of flame were creeping up the clapboard walls and beside the chimney and a feather of black smoke was issuing from a section of the roof. . A number of residents had already assembled on the periphery of this imminent conflagration and as l leaned against a tree panting, I noted that people were responding to this crisis in three different ways. One group had no idea what to do so it lurked at safe distances to watch. l was one of this number. Then there were those who did something, whether helpful or not l saw one old man run in and out to rescue any treasures he could collect. Once he brought out an umbrella stand bristling with fishing rods and on his next trip he carried a soup tureen and a bust of Napoleon. Also, there were people like father and Freda who were really helpful. Freda had learned that the fire department had declined to come because the owners had not paid the fee necessary to guarantee their services, so she and one of the boys sped a mile on foot over hill and dale to the city hall to commandeer the town fire hose. Father assumed charge of the whale bewildered group and shinnied up an oak tree from which he leaped to the mossy porch roof 129 and then he ordered all neighborhood hoses to be hooked together and connected to the faucet next door. When the trickle from that source proved inadequate, he directed a bucket brigade to pass him water on the roof. Miraculously these measures contained the blaze and shortly after the crisis was declared over, Freda and Tom puffed to the scene like Chinese coolies delivering a Mandarin in a rickshaw. Cheers were their reward. On another occasion when seven wails pierced the calm summer air, neighbors could be seen running north, so among those striving to be useful was my Uncle Court who armed himself with the kitchen fire extinguisher. At the end of the resort premises the crowds had collected near a small oil storage facility across a highway where firemen could be seen squirting water at a ground blaze which nibbled at the base of the big tanks. Since an explosion seemed imminent the spectators dispersed to a less exposed position and when the small flames were extinguished, Uncle Court returned the extinguisher to the hook by the kitchen stove.
 
The most serious conflagration during those years occurred when the boat houses burned. On the Belvedere side of the Round Lake shore there were two semi-circular structures each having a dozen or more separate units where boats of club members were stored. At the far end of one of these buildings our facility had three slips wherein the Ada B., the Barbara and two canoes rested from our excursions Since when we arrived on the scene there was no visible blaze in our area, Uncle Stanley requested that Freda and cousin Kay remove their middies, their outer bloomers and sneakers and dive under the doors to see if our boats were safe enough to move out. While Uncle Stanley was directing this operation from the adjoining dock, the chauffeur, Fred, had a better idea. He lit a match and opened the land-side door to have a peek inside. The blast of fresh air ignited the fumes of gasoline which had floated in from other units and presto! the whole place was an inferno. Fortunately, the two girls had not yet made their heroic exploration. Thus ended our sea-faring expeditions for that summer.
 
There were two families with whom we grew up who were almost as close to us as our own cousins. Our parents had been friends before any of them married and as the children of these couples were of  similar ages they, too shared a special friendship.  One of these families were the Finches who lived in St. Louis and often summered in Charlevoix where they always belonged in our big family gatherings. Herb and I were just one month apart in age, so our friendship began when we were still in diapers. He was at Yale when l was at Smith and on one of his visits to Northampton l introduced him to Eleanor Wood, who later became his wife. Now, in our late seventies, with a continent between us, we are still in touch, and I cherish the knowledge that I share with Herb that we have known each other longer than anyone else on earth. The Finches loved picnics as much as we did, and with girls far outnumbering boys in our families, Herb and his brother, Parker, were especially welcome among us. Scully, Barbara. Florence and John Scully lived in Peoria, Illinois (there are faded pictures of them in Yesterday's Chapter), but they spent their summers in northern Michigan, not far from Charlevoix. Their two eldest, Chase and Louise, were the ages of Freda and myself and in the mid-nineteen twenties we exchanged visits with them in both winter and summer. The Scullys were avid sailors, and once after we had spent a week with them in Northport Point (on the peninsula which enclosed Great Traverse Bay) John was returning us to Charlevoix on Aquila ll over about 35 miles of a very turbulent Lake Michigan. Freda and Louise had succumbed to mal-de-mer and had retired to the cabin bunks to suffer until we entered the channel to Round Lake. Chase and his father were exhilarating in the challenge of controlling the sleek little vessel as it raced under full sail across the foam-crested sapphire blue water. I was paying attention to nothing but my own private struggle of mind over matter as I willed my stomach to settle down. John turned to see that my face had turned green, and very casually, yet sternly, he said words which have come to my rescue in similar circumstances in later years: “Keep your nose in the wind, Barbara!" In 1960, with my husband Bill Wiseman, l visited Florence in Tucson. Arizona, where she spent her winters with a companion. She was, "as she always had been, gracious, warm and delightful, though now in failing health. The conversation had been a routine exchange of family news and recollections of the wonderful experiences we shared some forty years ago. Suddenly. with the directness of a bullet piercing a leaf to fly on through empty air, she said what was on her mind: "Barbara, I had always hoped that you would be my daughter-in-law.
 
During the years when my family lived in Nashville l spent the summers in my grandmother Birge's home. My cousin, Many lane (alias Jerry Mane, alias Jerry) and l had organized a play group for young girls  at the Belvedere chaperoning them from ill-12 and 2-4 daily for a fee of $1 per head. The price was liberal for the times and for our inexperience but the resident mothers eagerly seized the chance to  have their post-nursemaid daughters occupied and supervised for most of the day. Attendance ranged from perhaps ten or twelve energetic, high-spirited and sometimes disgustingly spoiled females, ages six to  twelve. lt was quite a trick to supply them with a common interest, but with the help of our own  imagination ands agenerous Mother Nature we gave them experiences in sharing and learning which enriched them all. Mornings were spent in "structured" (to use today's jargon) pursuits such as tennis, on the bumpy but pleasant courts in the woods, where nobody who knew anything about tennis would deign to play, or nature study, or fishing for perch off the Round Lake docks, or boating - where we gave instructions in rowing and canoeing - with emphasis on how to behave on the water. Afternoons were always devoted to beach activities where Jerry shared her expertise in aquatic skills while l patrolled the pier trying to keep track of the dozen slippery tadpoles splashing about in the shallows. We never lost a customer for which blessing l am still humbly grateful. We were the first pair to offer this ever-popular service and since that time more than two generations have carried on, though probably today the government would insist on computerizing everybody’s credentials. During my third summer at this pleasant task I was assisted by Kay, Jerry's sister, Jerry having gone to the altar with a gentleman whom the family welcomed with great enthusiasm because of his possible future usefulness He was a professor of Bankruptcy at the Harvard Law School. (Jerry, incidentally, was the first student to be married while an undergraduate at Wellesley. The college even allowed her to use the lovely little chapel for the ceremony and to continue her education there!) Freda had been invited to work with Kay and me, but we could not compete with the offer to be the prima equestrienne at a girls’ camp in New Mexico; we knew that even without pay she would have chosen the company of horses.
 
QUETICO PRESERVE, ONTARIO in mid-August I, too, left the field to Kay and a friend, to embark on one of the really great adventures of my life - a canoe trip through the Quetico Preserve of Ontario. Janet had been a close friend all through our years at Mary institute and Smith. Her father, Kurt the owner of the largest independent grocery business in St Louis, had spent the entire winter planning an expedition. There were to be six of us; three pairs. A bland and very bashful gentleman named Herman was to he Kurt's partner; Lee, a rather oafish and leaden youth was the companion of Kurt's son Dick, age sixteen; and l, with of course superb qualifications for vigorous primitive living, was chosen to accompany Janet. Ed Hager had been invited before Lee, but he had just been launched into the serious world of business as factory foreman of the E. S. Hager Paper Box and his father, the boss, was adamant that Ed learn as soon as possible that life was a serious affair, and he insisted that Ed stay on the job. No doubt this was the better solution for the rest of us as well, for Ed and l were so magnetized to each other that Kurt would have had trouble keeping his pairs in alignment. in Petoskey I boarded a truncated train of one ancient Pullman and two freight cars which crossed the Straits of Mackinac on a railroad ferry, then ambled on to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan.