Early History of Charlevoix, Michigan By Robert R. Ware
The Ottawa Indians were here when the White Men arrived.

1721 Father Charlevoix (a French Canadian missionary) came here in 1721.

1846 James Jesse Strong brought the Mormons to Beaver Island.

1852 Fisherman came to the mouth of Pine River.

1853 The Battle of Pine River, July 13, l853 (after which the fishermen moved out).

1854 Geo. Preston and family moved into the deserted cabins of the fishermen from
Beaver Island followed by Galen B. Cole and family who arrived from South Fox Island in a small schooner called the “Dolphin”.

1855 Mr. John S. Dixon and family arrived in May at the mouth of Pine River in the little schooner “Emeline” together with Mr. Wolcott and Frank May, a young man who had been hired as a helper at Northport. The Captain fearing an attack from the Mormons pulled out and sailed away. It took three days for the men to clear the brush and logs from the south river bank so they could pull a small boat up against the rapid current. This boat was loaded with supplies and a quantity of lumber. They finally dragged the boat up stream and tied it to the river bank on the north side just where the stream leaves Round Lake.

1867 In June the tug “Commodore Nut” built in Buffalo, NJ. arrived with four scows built in Northport. After considerable trouble the tug and scows made their way into Pine Lake. This was the first steam boat to enter Pine Lake via the ditch that had taken from early spring to make. Piles were driven on either side of the cut and for some distance into Pine Lake to indicate the channel. (See photo at Ed Edwards.) Richard Cooper ran a boarding house for the Al Fox & Co. which afterwards became the first hotel, the Fountain House.

1872 A mass meeting was held to discuss the matter of opening Pine River for navigation. Contract was made with A. Stickney for dredging Pine River which was begun in July. All prior dredging had been done by the tugs and the river current. A cut between Round and Pine Lakes 35 feet wide and 12 feet deep was made by an appropriation of $1,000 by the Board of Supervisors.

1877 The first Government appropriation for dredging of Pine River was in July 1877. Dr. Levi Lewis was the Pioneer Physician who came to Charlevoix in the spring of 1870 and was active until his death Dec. 29, 1930.

History of the Belevedere Club
1878 The Charlevoix Home Association wee formed in the spring. H.W. Page, President from Kalamazoo, Mich. Samuel Brooks, Secretary and Kendall Brooke, Treasurer both from Kalamazoo, Mich. They bought 25 acres of Land for $625. Six cottages were built that spring; S. A. Gibson on Lot 9; Kendall Brooks on lot 10; H. W. Page on lot ll; J. L. Sebring on lot 12; F. W.Wilcox on lot lb; I. W. Fisk on lot 17. They also built a substantial pier with l4 ft. of water for boats to land on the south bank of the channel at west end. An 8 stall bath house on Pine Lake and sunk a good well with ice cold pure water all for the sum of $1600. When the news of this new resort, in the heart of the Pine Woods country became known over 100 persons visited Charlevoix; some lived in tents, others found board and room in private homes.

1879 The Association purchased 25 acres more land from H. J. Stockman Just north of the original 25 acres. In October of that year, they bought 25 more acres. In these early days you had to come to Charlevoix by boat or stage as the nearest railroads were at Petoskey or Traverse City. The steam boat “Thomas Bryant” made all stops around Little Traverse Bay from Harbor Springs: to Petoskey, then
direct to the Belvedere dock. The “Lue Cummings” made all the stops in Grand Traverse Bay from Traverse City to the Charlevoix City docks. The larger steam boat: “Champlain” came up from Chicago with freight and passengers, stopping at most all ports from Ludington north. The larger steam ships could not come up the Pine River to the City dock and had to land their passengers and freight on
the north pier just above the mouth of the river, west of the Fountain City House.

1882 S.S. Fountain, 1000 ton steamer was first large boat to enter Round Lake and in the new channel.

1883 E. C. Ware and family came up from Chicago an the Champlain and were landed on the outer pier. They rented a cottage from J. L. Sebring On lot #54. The cottage was rebuilt in 1904 and remodeled at which time most all of the cottage people ate at the hotel. In 1930 the cottage was remodeled to accommodate ehe grandchildren and now the great grandchildren enjoy the same old cottage.

1885 Many new cottages had bee built (see postcard by Ralph Prim amt Ed Edward has) also note the new cut and the old River where the Pine River did flow.

1892 The new Belvedere was in operation under the management of Col. G. Edwin Dunbar. This same year the Pere Marquette Railroad was completed from Traverse City to Bay View.

A list of some of the steam boats in Charlevoix:
            North Star to East Jordan
            Walter Chrysler to East Jordan
            The Hum to East Jordan
            The Gordon to Boyne City; Gem Weaver Capt; L. Guard, owner.
            Thomas Fryant Little Traverse Jay
            Lue Cummings Grand Traverse Bay; burned at the dock 8; rebuilt, renamed.
            City of Boyne to Boyne City

Large Steam Ships:
            Champlain from Chicago – 3 to 4 days, docked on North Pier by lighthouse; burned June 16,  1887 on Fisherman’s Island reef; 22 lives lost; rebuilt and named City of Charlevoix.    
           City of Charlevoix; Lawrence; Petoskey, Illinois;  Missouri; City of Grand Rapids; Manitou;   North America; South America;
Beaver Island Boats;
            Gazell, 1879; E.L. Hackley; Elva; Mary Margaret; North Shore; M. McCann

Tug boats in Charlevoix;
            Minnie Warren;  A. Anafhe; Caroline; The Green; L. A. Rawson; J.H. Martin; J. L. Higgie; Neal Avery; E. L. Wheeler; Frank Geiken; J.W Parmiles;

Sailboats in the Belvedere Bayou:
            Amy 1st, Helen 2nd, Argo 3 owned by D. L. D’ege. Lady Ann owned by J.I. Dissette; Sylph   owned by E.C. Ware; Pif Paff owned by Jack Ward; Edith owned by Don Osborn; Squaw  owned by Gardner Bros Blue Mackinaw owned by Patsie Flanagan;
           and June Girl owned by C.        O. Roemler.

Schooners in and out of Charlevoix:
            The Luckey, Rosa Belle, Ida, Peoria, Vega, Black Hawk, St. Paul, Ottawa, and Meadow.

The new hotel had two bathtubs on the west end of the 1^st floor which could be used by appointment only. If’ you could not get in, you could get a key for one of the bath stalls from the hotel clerk and take your bath in Pine Lake. Most cottages at that time had a back room with a small coal stove where afternoon tea could be made. Also hot water could be heated for a hot foot bath if the lake was too cold. The hotel also had a bowling; alley on the west end. Swimming, sailing; tennis and baseball were the main sporting activities. The Belvedere baseball team was a good one. Don Osborn, the pitcher, was a “knock out”. The hotel ran a large dining hall in charge of an experienced caterer, wherer most of the Club members ate at a cost of $7.00 per week board. They ate what was put on the table. The fishing was very good with Lake Trout, German Brown and Rainbow in the streams and Steelhead, Bass,
Pike and Perch in the lakes; also the large Lake Trout.

Most every cottage had a rowboat to get over to the village. Some had a canoe. There were several horse drawn busses running between the hotel and the village for 10¢ a ride or 15¢ to Lake Michigan beach where people found agates, Petoskey and many other pretty stones that they would have cut and polished and made into rings, etc. There were also picnic rides to Mt. Mcsauba on the north shore of Lake Michigan where the U.S. Government had a tall wooden tower for surveying. Some indians lived in the 1ittle adjacent valley and old Chief McSauby charged 25¢ to climb up to the top of the tower.

There were many ox teams still in use in the logging business and John West who owned the cottage on Lot 210  gave a Pole ride instead of a hayride. The long poles were chained on to a lumber wagon which was drawn by a team of oxen.

The first motive power machines were the naptha launches. The “Cupid” was owned by W. H.
Aldrich, Lot 109 and one owned by Don Boudeman, Lat 209, “The Jane”.

This sketch of early days of BELVEDERE CLUB was written or compiled by Mrs. Kendall Brooks 

By searching the files of the Charlevoix Sentinel and reading the meager minutes of the Secretary, a few facts relating to the early days of the Charlevoix Summer Resort, now the Belvedere Club, have been gathered which perhaps may be of interest.

In the late 1870s the citizens of Charlevoix, seeing that their sister City of Petoskey had a good thing in the Methodist camp meeting, which brought many summer visitors and much business to their city, started a movement to obtain a subscription from the citizens and the effort resulted in the purchase of a piece of lend for $625.00 from Mr. M. J. Stookman; and at the Baptist Convention in October 1877, this was offered to that body for the use of the Baptists for a summer resort, with the motion that a committee of nine be appointed to consider this proposition and report at some future session.

The committee being prevented from visiting  that fall by unfavorable weather, went the next spring to Charlevoix, Petoskey, and Little Traverse to look at the various pieces offered. They agreed in giving the preference to Charlevoix in every respect but one and that was in the amount of lend offered; — “The Methodists at Petoskey have over 200 acres, the Presbyteriens at little Traverse
have 80 acres, while we have the offer of but 25, and that on the condition that we would agree to expend $500, a year for two years in improvements.

After consultation it was thought best to accept the offer and the men from Kalamazoo were requested to arrange for the formation of an association, which they subsequently did.

A constitution was adopted and the following officers were elected; President, H. W. Page, Secretary, Dr. Samuel Brooks, Treasurer, Dr. Kendall Brooks.

It was to be known as the Charlevoix Summer Resort Association. “Any person not objectionable may become a member by vote of the Association, signing the constitution and paying $10, when he has the
privilege of selecting any lot not already chosen.“

While the offer of the land was to the Baptists for a summer resort, it is not the intention of the constituent members of the Association to restrict the use of the land to Baptists, so the word Baptist does not form a part of the corporate name. We do not wish to exclude good people of other denominations. The superior attractions of Charlevoix have already drawn some whose religious convictions would naturally lead them to other places.

There are several ways of reaching Charlevoix. A stage from Petoskey leaves every morning at 7 o’clock, the road is good; the fare $1.00.  A stage, a good Democrat, leaves Boyne Falls, 15 miles
south of Petoskey on the G. R. and I., Tuesday, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 9 A. M. connecting at the head of Pine Lake with the Gazelle, a fine little steamboat, for Charlevoix. The ride through the woods
is pleasant though the road is rough. Stage and boat fare, $1.50

In two months after the proposition was accepted, over $1,600 had been expended in improvements. It is expected that a good boarding house and many cottages will be built early next summer.

May 1878.
The committee of Michigan and Indiana gentlemen recently appointed to determine the affairs of the resort consisted of H. W. Page and B.F. Lyon of Kalamazoo, and Messrs. Carter and Gordan of Fort Wayne. They made a thorough examination and survey of the property and reported that they were well pleased. They said improvements would be commenced on the grounds in one month and several cottages erected.

June ll, 1878.
On Tuesday the following gentlemen connected with the Charlevoix summer Resort Association arrived in town; H. W. Page, J. L. Sebring, T. S. Cobb, and Judge Wells of Kalamazoo, John G. Calkins and N. W. W. Smith of Grand Rapids, L. H. Andrews and Wm. Carter of Fort Wayne.
The purpose of this visit was to close the negotiations between the Association and the people of Charlevoix for the location of the association in the township. The proposed 25 acres lying at the foot
of Pine Lake and connecting with the Bayou were surveyed and the bond made out and placed in the hand of the Committee. Contract was made with M. J. Stockman for the 25 acres of land for the sum of $625. A deed is to be executed to convey said land to the Association on condition that an expenditure of $1,000 in improvements be made within two years. The land was at once taken possession of and improvements to the sum of $1,600 were made before October, 1878

July 2, 1878.
On Wednesday H. E. Page, F. W. Wilcox and Prof. Samuel Brooks arrived and caused the first blow to be struck on the grounds of the Charlevoix Summer Resort Association. It is the purpose of the Association to fence and improve the grounds. Five cottages have been commenced and all our builders not otherwise engaged are busy with the construction. They have a new well in successful operation. The land is divided into lots 50 by 100 feet to be leased, not sold. Any person not objectionable may become a member by the payment of $10. There may be a small annual assessment not to exceed $2.00, unless authorized by two thirds of the members present at a meeting called for that purpose. Persons holding lots are entitled to half fare on the railroad for themselves and members of their families. Good board at from five to seven dollars, according to the room.

Notes from the secretary’s book; The first regular meeting of the Association was held June 21, 1878, at Kalamazoo; when the first officers, mentioned above, were elected.

December 15, 1879.
At this meeting a committee Was appointed, consisting of the President, J. L.Sebring and S. A. Gibson to secure subscriptions to stock and was impowered to purchase the two pieces of land lying north of the grounds and between them and Round Lake.

November 28, 1879.
At a special meeting, among other things the enlargement of the hotel was considered and the beautifying of the grounds

April, 1885.
Voted to build to board walks, one from rear Mrs. Gulley’s cottage to the foot of Ranney’s stairway, the other from Henry Bishop’s cottage to the well.

July, 1885.
Voted to assess each lot $5.00 for the coming year. Voted to approve the highway tax of $60.

August, 1883.
Voted to authorize D. B. Merrill to put a wire fence on the, east side of Tennyson St. from the gate to the terrace.

April, 1884.
Talk of a new dining hall. Negotiations made for a windmill in the park to supply the hotel with water.

July 10, 1884.
Voted to appropriate not more than $10 for telephone in hotel. Lot assessment $8.00.

August 1884.
A committee was appointed to engage a caretaker for the coming season. The job of clearing the land from the upper terrace to Pine Lake, Burning the logs, cutting all trees not marked to save, and sowing to wheat, was let to D. J. Bigelow for $48 for the whole job.

July, 1885.
Annual Meeting. The treasurer reported receipts for the year $2,945.59 Expenses $2,945.59

1886.
Voted that a Club House with hotel accommodations be built on or near the site of the old Belvedere at a cost of not to exceed $6,000; provided the money can be raised by the issue of bonds or any other satisfactory method.

Deeds. Morris J. Stookman and wife to the Charlevoix Summer Resort Association, August 14, 1878. as Acres.

John S. Dixon and wife Phoebe S. to the B. S. R. A. July 15, 1880. Morris J. Stockman and wife Lottie A. to the C.S.R.A  25 acres July 24, 1880.

There were no fences at first and the small boys were often encouraged to drive the cows from around the cottages. Once, when some vegetables had been left on Mrs. Gibson’s porch, a cow came along, ate them all and quenched her thirst at the convenient tub of water; the latter the greater loss, for all water was brought in barrels on a dray from the Lake and until the men learned to put a cover over the barrels, most of it was lost on the way up the hill. Before cisterns were built, many cottagers obtained old oil barrels burned them out and caught water from the roofs.

One of the characters of those times was Mrs. Vosburg, who drove an old horse and dilapidated wagon, selling a few vegetables which were very welcome, as there was little or nothing of the kind to be had at the stores in town. She made more money telling fortunes and charming away warts from the hands of children. During the summer of 1878 there was no molasses in town as the order had been forgotten until it was such warm weather that they feared the barrel would burst if it came by boat from Milwaukee.

One of the avocations was the burning of the pine stumps, of which every lot had several.

The first six cottages were built by F. W. Wilcox, J. L. Sebring, H. W. Page, S. A. Gibson, Dr. Samuel Brooks and Dr. Fisk, all on the upper terrace.

Mrs. Henry Severance and Prof. Lewis Stuart were appointed as an informal committee to choose a name for the hotel. After watching the shadows and reflections on Pine Lake, they reported “Belvedere” as their choice.

The local 4th of July celebrations were always enjoyed by the resorters and some can still remember seeing Ross Mahon walking the greased pole, over the river at the foot of Bridge Street, to get the silver dollar at the other end.

The names of some of the steamboats and tugs will bring to many memories, both pleasant and otherwise. Thedazelle, Clara Belle, Minnie Warren, T. S. Paxton, City of Grand Rapids, Thomas Friant.

The calling card in those days was a leaf with the name written on it with the head of a pin, which fastened it to the door. There was no ice in those days, and the crock of butter was kept in the well at the foot of the stairs. The letting of it down and pulling it up by a long rope was a delight to the small
boys.

The passing of the Song Service at the Belvedere Club, which for so long was a feature of Sunday on the grounds, is a commentary on the changed ideals and customs of the day. The service began very simply the first year of the Clubs life, in fact before it had a name, when a few beatuy loving and rever-
ential souls, sat under the trees on the  upper terrace, and sang hymns to the praise of God, and watched the sunset glory reflected on hills and lakes spread out before them.

As Club members increased, old music hall was build as a social gathering place, a piano and song books were purchased, and the Song Service became a regular feature of Sunday on the grounds, and certainly created an atmosphere which had its share shaping the character of the Club. In order that hotel guests might participate it was moved to the Belvedere parlor until it outgrew the space, and was then transferred to the Casino where for many years it was held every Sunday night during July and August.

Charlevoix has been fortunate in having many musical visitors who have added greatly to the pleasure of the services by contributing their talents, and many ministers have favored us with inspiring talks.

Who will ever forget the charming voices of Mrs. W. H, Aldrich, Mrs. Wall, Mrs. Lawson, Dr. Wright, Rockwell Brank and others, while the name of Windsor Aldrich, will always recall his fine baritone and the splendid leadership which he gave so wil1ingly. With his passing the Song Service declined and rather than see a fine thing degenerate into a perfunctory task, it has seemed best to let it become a delightful memory. Belvedere Club has been a success from many standpoints, and the Song Service has had its part in the making of it.

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.

Charlevoix  the Beautiful – Cecilia Hollingsworth Chadbourne – August, 1967

School is out in the moist warmth of summer in the corn belt has begun. It is time to make list of things needed and things to be stored in left behind. Trunks came down from the attic and the shopping trips, via the beloved mom en route to Chicago begin. All this in preparation for the yearly journey Charlevoix, the Shangri-La of our youth.

The trip to Chicago was brief, and overnight at the Palmer House or the Saratoga in the morning, over the Rush Street bridge to the dock and the mad too. A noble ship she was and we children knew her from stem to stern. We were always greeted cordially by chief engineer Collins, Mr. Donnelly the dining room steward and then surely the greatest honor a personal greeting from Capt. William Fanuc and himself. Although we had followed him through the seasons when, under the northern Michigan transportation company he had commanded the SS Missouri and then the SS Illinois, yet never, to us, was there a ship so wonderful as the SS Matt two. No ship had deck so spotless white, breastworks of gleaming, meal so good and birth so comfortable. Nor was there ever water so blue or a air so delicious as when she headed north for Charlevoix.

 I remember so well how can I out I was when, after we were well see, one of the crew brought my mother’s lien and healing Italian heart down into the engine room and she played for Mr. Collins and his helpers. That was our mother, the one arm vital moving spirit of all our days at Charlevoix.

We were always up early and on deck for the first sight of the Charlevoix sure, two-mile point, then the entrance to the channel with the lighthouse on one side and the lifesaving station (later the Coast Guard) on the other. I remember the flowers on the lawn in front of Dr. LeFevre’s house up on the terrace just above the channel. I can still feel the delightful shiver at the last of the manatees whistle and she signaled for the bridge to open. So broad she was there were only a few yards to spare on each side as she steamed through the channel and into round Lake. So long was she that sometimes she needed the sturdy ton Taylor’s help to turn her and bring her up to her birth and Wilbur stopped. Once or twice-surely historic events-she sailed straight through round Lake out the upper channel into Pinelake (now like Charlevoix) turned back and came up to the dock unaided. Where would’ve gone abroad that she would do this in the shores on both sides of the channel and resort were lined with cheering parents and youngsters. Of certain knowledge, I must add, to those who knew Capt. Fanuc and and to Joe Howard in particular a member of the captain’s crew, the Missouri or the manna to who could swing his ship in any weather in round Lake without tugs help and bring her gently and perfectly into her birth on the first try. The thrill of watching that marvelous performances with me still.

 When we died of dock the horse-drawn buses and drays were always waiting to carry passengers, baggage and freight to the Charlevoix Village and the resorts on both sides of round and Pinelake. Always the first sight of the cottage-our cottage, thrilled us with pride in anticipation of joys to come. The Bluebell. The gleaming white with blue trim and a red roof visible to sailors 10 miles or more out on Lake Michigan. Our grandfather, Oscar M Allen, one of the 10 to establish the Belvidere resort was a devout Mason. He built his cottage in the form of a Maltese cross, the first floor, four rooms opening onto a central room with outside porch is filling up the corners, making the floor plan a square. The second floor had four bedrooms opening out onto the balcony that looked down on the first floor center room. Please bedrooms all had doors opening onto outside porches which ran completely around the house. The third floor was merely a smaller balcony, also looking down on the first floor center room. This had no rooms except a small unfurnished storeroom with just windows all around the outside wall. At the very top was a Kubla-one room with windows from which we could see Pinelake, the Bayou (later the yacht club mooring) the upper terrace and way off over the buildings of the town blue of Lake Michigan.

From the third floor down past the second floor balcony to the big round table in the center of the first floor was a long dizzy-and I mean dizzy-distance. Early in my youth my grandfather had a big net made by the sailors at the lifesaving station. This net covered completely the opening from the second-floor balcony, the mesh is fine enough to catch tennis balls, shoes, toys and yet strong enough to keep a falling child from breaking his neck.

Going back up to the Kubla, that was a marvelous room, perfect for club meetings and paper dolls. Clara Bailey (who sisters could match any man in handling a sailboat) often played there with me. To read, to confer privately, or just to get away from it all, the Kubla was the place.

 To complete the general description of the cottage, the porches outside the second-floor match those downstairs and outside the front bedroom, my sisters in mind, hanging from the porch roof was the blue painted wooden bell-the Bluebell. So many memories enter around that front bedroom. Think roses in the wallpaper, lacy pink line spreads on the twin beds, wide well padded window seats for an occasional overnight guest from the north side. Stress Tatian was chancy after the dance is late at night. The last dummy left for the north side at 11 in both fairies before that. Result-both window seats occupied. My sister.and I had separate dressing tables, separate closets. Nevertheless things did happen and it was a real tragedy when hair was quick carefully twisted, side comes in place, rolled and pinned securely to hear from the other side of the room these words “you have my side comes”.

 Another bedroom, the East one, held special memories. He was usually saved for special guests, for those of us who in later year came as married couples, or broader babies to the Bluebell. It was in this very room that my mother and father sat in the hammock (there were hooks for hammocks in every room) and made plans for their wedding. Mama, incidentally, was only 12 when grandfather gave the acreage to the club for the resort. After I was born, I share this room with my parents. Still later, Chad and I brought our baby, now a grandmother, to that room in the Bluebell. The whole beautiful cottages filled with memories I want to share with our children. Music, dancing, games, picnic meals and quiet hours before the blazing fires of birch logs-grandpa Johnson brought in these logs, bless him-just being happy and cozy and young. That was life at the Bluebell.

 So here we are at the cottage. The sun is shining, the air crisp and sweet, and the Charlevoix day with his promise of fun and love and companionship begins for me, Cecilia, a little girl. As I look back I wonder it are seemingly casual acceptance of all that beauty, the only thought uppermost in our child’s heart was of joys to come to the feast of things to do.

 First of all was the resurrection of our stored toys, the dolls, the boats, the games and bathing suits all packed away in chest under the window seats in the den. The grown-ups busied themselves rooting out at fishing tackle, nets, tennis rackets-many in need of restringing or tightening-, canoe paddles, and cushions all locked away in closets under the stairs. Then 4.and me there was the matter of checking up on playmates, Marybelle, Virginia, Josephine and investigating our old playhouse. Our club in the center of a dense clump of cedar and spruce and white birch in the side yard. We had much to discuss; who would come back, who would be good new members, who of our old members might’ve grown up too much during the winter to enjoy our games. Our feminine attitude towards his beloved exclusive group was a reflection of our social sense of values. A prospective member might have many party dresses, shoes and stockings to match, sermons to launder countless play close, parents who owned yachts and beautiful sailboats canoes and yet be rated highly and welcomed into our secrets and games. We did not envy nor hold it against her, we only knew we loved her and wanted her as a playmate. On the other hand, a girl might not have as much as we had in his parents could only afford a brief time at Belvedere. We did not feel pity for her, not for a minute. If she measured up to our code of ethics, and we had one, believe me-she was welcomed in. That any girl would not want to belong never entered our heads. I remember one girl whose parents were wealthy was being considered for membership. She discovered a hole in her stocking-a supplement that-and remark quote oh that doesn’t matter, my mother can’t be bothered mending stockings, we just buy new ones”. Whereupon, to our horror she put her finger in the hall and Rick the stocking its whole length. She was blackballed.

Other matters, important to both parents and us had to be attended to as soon as possible. One was our enrollment in the dancing classes instruction for those who could not as yet swim. Another important matter was to get a load of clean white sand from Lake Michigan beach for our sandbox, a source of hours of fascinating play. Just a few of the countless things our parents did for us which we happily and quite casually accepted. Parents were supposed to do these things weren’t they?

That sand, mentioned above, cleaned not only our feet and hands, but could take spots off will and dresses, pants” so dry and clean it was. Even so, he was not so popular when much of it was inevitably carry into the cottage and ground into the carpets. This resulted eventually in those red carpets being taken up and made into beautiful rugs the very same rugs the today cover the floor of the Bluebell.

To set the stage for other first things to do, let’s look at the topography of the Belvedere resort and much of Charlevoix self. Much of that region is a series of terraces left behind as water retreated in those terraces form an important part of the in the scenes of our youth. There is the upper Terrace, cottages snuggled away among the purchase and evergreens, quiet restful and private. Steps, wooden in the early days, cement now, lead down to the lower terrace, cottages, gardens, tennis courts and the hotel, fronting on Belvedere Avenue, highway leading to the village. This terrace slopes gently down from cottages and hotel to the lake level, by you, boat houses, channel, railroad, beaches, swimming.and later the new casino. Finally as we wade out into the Clearwater of Pinelake, feeling a little ridges of yellow sand under our feet, we see the “drop off”, edge of another Terrace. Going beyond that mysterious deep dark spot is for swimmers only. And believe me, every little girl and boy learns to swim earlier in her career or else. No sailboats, no trips alone in canoe or rowboat unless she can swim. Otherwise a hated harness or lifejacket and strip strict supervision on Beecher dock. Right here, a little incident in Ray the above. One day we came into the boathouse in the rowboat there was a canoe hung on its davits as it should be, but with its bottom dripping wet. When we arrived at the cottage we discovered my young brother in a small friend, not yet swimmers, apparently fast asleep in bed fully clothed they learned.

On the upper Terrace in the was was our first little casino or dance hall. Very soon after our arrival at Paris always arranged with Mrs. Foster for dancing lessons. This was when we first knew to dancing the thrill of expressing with music the rhythm and beauty of bodily grace. It was Mrs. Foster who helped us feel the importance of social amenities through what she termed correct ballroom conduct. This training, though not fully understood at the time, became a habit for me that at least was held over. To this day I remember her admonitions.

 “A little lady sits quietly without giggling or squirming. When the young gentleman asks her to dance he bows from the waist. She wishes to dance she rises, takes the edge of her skirt in her fingertips, bends her knee and bows. A young gentleman is never without gloves or handkerchiefs, lest he soiled the back of his partner’s dress.” Boys were taught to escort their partners back to their seats around the outside not across the hall. No sliding or while dashes, floors were well waxed in those days, and they slide off it meant finishing on the seat of ones pants. No, that little freckle faced boy and I were madly in love with one another when I was 11 (I found a snapshot of him the other day with “my hero” written on the back of it). That boy might push you off the doctor next date with your clothes on, but on the dance floor, he was a gentleman. How deeper those impressions and influences. Even when I was in college and some specially wonderful man asked me to dance, I felt the impulse to take the edge of my skirt and my fingers and now, happy as I used to be when a little girl to be chosen. I remember that now went the formal balls and proms at Harvard we made our deep curtsies before the patrons and patroness is as we entered with our partners. Outdated it may seem to you, our children, and more especially to you, our grandchildren, but that was part of our way of life and a beautiful one it was two. As I write those last words “and a beautiful one it was to” I want to change was to his. I am a happy woman with the ability to adjust to the inevitable changes, but still with the firm belief and conviction what in my youth was honorable and right is still so; what beautiful then is so now. The verities do not change. Gracious living is still gracious living.

It was Mrs. Foster who first taught the little girls the Highland fling and the skirt dances, the boys the jigs and sailors born pipes. When the new casino in the Belvedere Annex was built, miss, traverse and her sister Maud, from Grand Rapids, took over the instruction Mrs. Foster had begun. Ms. Travis stressed the importance, as had Ms. Mrs. Foster, and value of courtesy in general, little acts of consideration for others. This specifically meant being kind to newcomers, those who are shy and awkward perhaps. “Ask her to dance, Gerald. You may be in for a surprise”. “Dance with him, Cecilia, he’s a fine boy. You may stumble over his feet, just watch your own” sometimes, I must say, you found yourself suddenly separated from your partner and put into the arms of a perfect stranger, your partner dancing with a strange girl. Ms. Travis believed in group participation, you might say. Even as little girls we learn from Cala more about coordination of body and limbs, good preparation for ballet. “Balance your body with your arms, third fingers and thumbs together, heads up, back straight and smile” and I truly believe I made the rowing squad college mainly on the strength of those last two admonitions “straight back, and smile”.

 Twice a week, on Monday and Thursday night there was dancing at Belvedere. The children danced eight. Then the older gradeschool group could join the adults and teenagers till nine, when they in turn departed, presumably leaving the floor clear for the young and older grown-ups. This worked very well, on the whole, youngsters being what they were and are. The babies didn’t get stepped on, the gradeschool group could join the teenagers and young adults in the delightful quadrille’s, ballroom and exhibition dancing, and the grand March. Miss Travis at one end of the hall, Miss Maud at the other. One of the most prideful experiences of my young life was being selected to do a Spanish dance, castanets, gay yellow bolero, black silk pleated skirt, yellow, green and red satin ribbon streamers, black slippers and shiny buckles. This very skirt was a coveted costume piece for our children’s dress-up parties. I heard them remark “this is what mother or aunt Cecilia war in the olden days”.

 I can see so plainly the well corseted, beautifully gowned, curled and powdered mothers sitting around the dance hall watching with pride or apprehension as the case might be as we performed. Only on rare occasions could my father go further with us that Chicago on our summer journey to Charlevoix. So it was a memorable and important event when Papa came for an all too brief vacation, a few precious days with his family. When fathers did come, we daughters look forward very privately to being seen dancing them. I remember a woman who knew our family only slightly saying to mama, after Papa had been introduced, “I knew you were Cecilia’s mother, but I thought Mr. Hollingsworth was Cecilia’s brother”

As I look back I wonder whether we even dimly realized or appreciated the self-sacrifice of those devoted fathers of families who labored through the heat of the city summers in their offices in the big cities-Chicago, St. Louis, Louisville, Memphis and Cincinnati. No, we accepted with a blissful assurance of childhood. Three months of happiness, the sweet sharp cool breezes, the Bluewater, lovely clean sand and rich fragrant evergreens of Charlevoix.

 As I write, I become increasingly conscious of an influence, a personality that dominates the scenes of my childhood-my maternal grandfather-Oscar Monro Allen. Without him there would’ve been for us, no Charlevoix. Briefly, the development of the Belvedere resort is a matter of history, set down more fully elsewhere. These words of mine reflect my own personal feelings and affection for my grandfather. A patriarch of the old school, surely a martinet, ruler and High Court in his family and with all generous to a fault, he took great pride in his position as a charter member of the Charlevoix overhung Association, the administrative body of the Belvedere resort. A tender thought here for history. “Belvedere” is not an uncommon place name. However, very few, I believe, know why this Belvedere was so named. Early in their married life, Oscar and Hannah Allen lost a beloved little daughter in infancy. The baby’s name was “Belva deer”.

 The hotel Belvedere, owned and operated by the Charlevoix summer home association was more than hotel; it was a clubhouse, post office, dance casino, dining room parlor and lounge, the very center of all of our social activities. Guests known or vouched for by the Association members and cottage owners were accepted. Owners could, with the approval of the Association, allow friends to occupy their cottages for the summer. At the risk of being thought to exclusive, but wishing to ensure for the club members the privacy and privilege of living as they wished, according to their own code code, the Charlevoix overhung Association establish certain rules and regulations. Before setting down a few of the blue laws established by that of most body, back in the 1880s and 90s, let me say that these laws are of public record, as set down in public deck 39, enacted by the people of the state of Michigan in 1889. If you think these few selections of minor strict, just read the original act 39. It leads off with a statement that and I quote “we, as a summer home association, must operate as a society for the promotion of scientific culture, religion and morality”. Well, here are a few regulations which I personally was conscious of;

1.     Lights out at 11 accept on dance night when the hour is 1130.

2.      No bloating up on basal lakes within or bordering upon the club lands on Sunday.

3.      All bathers and swimmers, young and old, must wear robes or coats over bathing suits on going down to the Pinelake Beach, the rid being behind, not in front of the cottages.

4.      Dogs or horses allowed on the resort grounds.

5.      No card games or smoking in hotel parlors on Sunday, except in the lobby.

6.      Motorcars must be kept off resort grounds when not in use.

7.      Close lines in the rear of cottages must be concealed behind lattices to avoid spoiling appearance of gardens and grounds.

8.      Combustible material must be burned in furnace or fireplace; green garbage must be safe for farmers as it is highly esteemed for pigs.

Sounds grim? Remember, however, that even in those days parents were tenderhearted and understanding, prone to temper the wind with the result that shades were pulled down over Windows after 11, lest the light disturb the neighbors. Our Shetland pony was stable in the barn just behind the fence bordering the resort grounds and easily reached by climbing over a style. Our collie pup lived with friends over the resort on the other side of the channel, the “Chicago side” we called it, and we can nude over almost every day to romp with him. As for swimming on Sunday, how about going down to the boathouse in the bayou, tying the rev up to the dock outside and closing the doors on the water side? The boat houses became a delightful swimming pool. When those and that Kellerman tights came out-slick black skin tight garments, my sister and I tried them out in that pool, deliciously thrilled that are daring. Also, on chilly rainy Sundays, children, as a special favor, much appreciated by the parents, believe me, were allowed to play games, cards, checkers, chess and dominoes in the hotel parlors. This letting down of the bars let flavor to the games and gave us a sense of being rewarded for good behavior, with no guilty feeling. I remember mama saying “you can do anything if it’s right and you can do it in the right way”. Seemingly to strict these regulations were, yet in essence they were laid down at a consideration of others’ feelings, their comfort and their personal rights.

Our parents, as did other parents, brought us to the Belvedere to give us a happy, healthful, worthwhile summer; and incidentally, to ensure for themselves perhaps, a few weeks of rest and relaxation and a chance to play with their children. They knew that through their play and their sports these children would learn skill, clean living, courage, leadership and care of property – all the ingredients for a useful and happy life. Why do we send our sons and daughters to summer camps? For one reason only, to give them what the crowded city life summer plus what no camp can offer – Parent Participation. We discovered that picnics were more fun when Mamma and Papa were there. Swimming, tennis, boat races, all were more exciting with parents in the gallery to applaud, or, better yet, to take part. Even when young love came into our lives, romance, canoes on a quiet moonlit lake, cozy silences and dreaming before beach fires or birch logs on the hearth at home, John McCormack singing “I Hear You Calling Me” there was the blissful feeling that everything was all right; nothing could happen because Mamma and Papa knew where we were, and trusted us. Sometimes, when things were pretty cozy and nice in the Den, very quiet indeed – we could forget completely that Mamma was asleep, really asleep, in her bedroom just across the living room. But way down deep in our minds was the certainty that when it got to be that-time-o-night, a sixth sense would wake her and we would hear her soft but very clear “Cecilia”.

The Hotel Belvedere was indeed a fascinating place. We children who lived in cottages used to envy, perversely, the life of the hotel child Think of it! No beds to make, no dishes to wash, every meal an exciting adventure in the big dining room, bell boys to run errands, and, from the feminine point of view, the luxury (?) of staying dressed up in good clothes most of the time. Incredible  But the greatest advantage, the most important feature, again from the feminine angle, was the chance to gather in the lobby on dance nights getting programs filled by the simple expedient of handing them to the masculine young fry congregated there after dinner. The helpless swain could do rio less than , scribble their names in the blank spaces. These maneuvers disgusted my mother; she made it plain to Dot and me that we could have no part in it. “You are simply forcing those boys to dance with you whether they want to or not. Even if you don’t have all your dances “taken”, at least those you do have were asked for. One t)iing I can’t stand is a pushy girl. Learn to dance so beautifully that every boy who asks you the first time will ask you again.

Smile, be good company. It will pay.” And it did. Right here, however, I will say that Mamma helped things along by allowing Dot and me to invite a boy guest up for two weeks in the height of the season. Those boys, plus two brothers and two boy cousins constituted a very impressive group of partners. Mamma always said she preferred boy guests. “Girls so often get homesick.” My brothers were magnificent dancers and Dot and I felt honored that they seemed to enjoy dancing with us. They made us feel they considered dancing with us a privilege rather than an obligation. I know we were envied by the feminine contingent. Here-again history repeats itself. Mamma’s brothers also, to judge from pictured and family lore, were the moving spirits in their masquerades, cotillions and dancing parties, certainly just as gay and colorful as any we knew or those our children and grandchildren enjoy. (More about this later.) summer enthusiasm and interest in her children’s good times, my mother vas consulted by many of our young group about costumes. Her ingenuity, plus the wonderful supply of odds and ends; old hats, cloaks, scarfs, shawls – the accumulation of years of dressing up, resulted to  wild and very original garb. Our cottage was near the Casino and hotel kitchen, when it was in the Hotel Annex, and we used our special private access to the hall through a narrow passage between Casino and the hotel kitchen. Thus we could appear in costume in the hall without anyone’s knowing where we came from.

In connection with dancing, we were fortunate indeed to have, for many seasons Charley Fischer’s five piece orchestra from Kalamazoo. He and his brother, Bert, the pianist were playing at the Belvedere when the first Oldsmobiles came on the market. They popularized the song “Come away with me Lucile, iri my Merry Oldsmobile”. They gave away lapel pins shaped like little Olds. As a delightful and in those days, a unique variation, they would put down their instruments and sing the chorus of the number they were playing. Bert was a brilliant pianist and his recitals were things to remember. An exciting event was the arrival of the Hompe yacht “Doloma” from Grand Rapids, Usually in July she steamed in from Lake Michigan, through Round Lake, the bayou and the channel, and dropped anchor a few hundred feet off the swimming dock in Pine Lake.

Eager as we were to go out to greet her, the Hompe girls, Dorothy, Lorraine and Marjorie (name of yacht- the two first letters in the girls names) were even-more eager to come ashore and up to the Blue Bell to see what was going on,’ and to report in. Moored as she was within easy swimming distance from the shore, the “Doloma” was the center of interest and activity during the swimming hour. Now, this swimming hour on Pine Lake, circa three P.M. was a tradition, a ritual observed by everyone, swimmers and spectators alike. Only illness or pressing business elsewhere kept the Hollingsworth children away, On dance nights the girls left early; long hair, which even under a cap got wet, took a long time to dry. This hair-drying ‘•do” as I remember, took on a distinctly romantic flavor sometimes. Young swains grew very adept with towel and comb, Referring back to those Annette Kellerman tights, I can tell you it was only a short time before we realized that they made marvelous substitutes, all-in-one foundations for the unwiedly garter belts, stockings and underpants – all part of the conventional bathing suit. Tights, outer bathing dress, and there you were To swim out to the “Doloma” was exciting indeed. Like a school of Porpoises we played and splashed around her, following down the anchor chain into the blue depths, hanging to the ladders and ropes, and sometimes as a special favor being invited, wet suits and all, to come aboard. Always, from the very beginning, especially true during my mother’s youth, boating ranked first among all the sports, something for everyone. My recollections of these very early days include so much about boats – big boats, little boasts row boats, canoes, little catboats, punkin1 seeds, beautiful sailing yachts.I remember being taken out in our rowboat through Round Lake, the channel antl into Lake Michigan to watch the sun go down. This boat held six, quite wide in beam, but beautifully fashioned, carpet in the bottom, padded seats, nickel-plated oarlocks and fittings, a rudder operated by ropes in the stern seat, and two sets of oars, ; When the sun set in a cloudless sky and we could watch the great orange red globe as it slowly sank into the lake, we stayed till it was completely gone. When there were clouds however, it was even harder to leave because of the gorgeous Colors. Never have I seen such sunsets: the littlest children were usually asleep in the bottom of the boat when we pulled into the bayou. No Harvard or Yale coxswain could have brought his shell into the boathouse with more style or snap.

Once in a while, a most thrilling sight, a big three-masted schooner from Boyne City, up at the east end of Pine Lake came through the channel, loaded with lumber or tan bark, bound for Lake Michigan and Chicago or Milwaukee. We children were usually alerted by the tug’s signal to open the bridge, or her horn if she  was under sail, and rushed down to the Point to see her go through. The was narrow, not much room on either side and we shouted and waved at the sailors we could see so plainly on her decks. Even more exciting perhaps, from the small fry point of view was when a heavily loaded barge, much wider in beam and more unwieldy got stuck in the channel. Then the word went abroad “Barge Stuck!”

Old and young gathered and shouted gratuitous advice to the sweating crew or the barge and the straining tug. Sometimes two tugs were needed, but eventually we could see the stirred up mud swirling around the barge as she finally came free. Remember the times when two lumber schooners were beached and abandoned off the Bailey-Thom/son point, and still another two over west of the Chicago Club in Round above water. The Inn, owned and operated by the Pere Marquette Railroad, across the channel from us, fronting, as did the Belvedere Hotel on Pine Lake, was of necessity a much more luxurious hotel, serving as it did the general public. We had many friends over there, guests of the hotel and cottage owners. They Jsavie to our dances and we went to theirs, and in between we neighbored. We shared the fine golf course, paying a nominal fee. I like to think that our north side friends had a little better time over at Belvedere with us than they did in the more formal atmosphere of the Inn, At any rate* there was hardly a morning that we did not see a young visitor appear on the front poroh, getting in early on the fun of the day, whatever it might turn out to be. Of course there was the possibility of sharing a hot cake or two, or more toast. For our mother the more the merrier, merely the matter of another place at the big round table, might say we all could cook and did. Sometimes guests appeared at the back door too, having caught the early “dummy” from the north side.’ After breakfast came the big question, what to do today for fun. Picnic and swim on Lake Michigan beach and gather some wintergreen leaves, tennis, sailing, rowing or canoeing over to the village for shopping and an ice cream soda at Beaman1s Ivy Drug Store? They had a huge ivy plant in a big barrel that they fed beefsteak. Keep in mind, however, all this must be done at the proper time. When Duty called in the shape of dancing lessons, household chores, piano practice — I studied with Bert Fischer — care of boats, or make-up school work, we answered.

Tennis, however, weather permitting, was usually the first thing on the agenda for all who didn’t have serious activities and responsibilities. Tournaments attracted many top notch players, and competition was keen. By ten o’clock the courts were full, also the spectator’s benches. I do remember that the younger players were given consideration so long as they really played instead of romping. The back porch of the Blue Bell looked out on the courts and we had grand stand seats. It became the custom, too, to pause on the way to the courts for a go at the piano, usually four hands and’when so rendered, the “Cannont “Kitten on The Keys”, “Too much Mustard”, “Alexander’s Rag Time Band”, sounded, to the people on the upper terrace I’ve been told, like a pianola plus a calliope!

When the storms came and the waves on Lake Michigan grew huge and foam- crested, breaking over the pier, sending spray up to the light in the lighthouse at the mouth of the channel, we put on warm clothes (mine was a bright woolen plaid trimmed in red silk ruffles) and walked the two miles to town and out onto the pier. Mamma taught us to love the storms, even the lightning and thunder, telling us to enjoy the beauty of the flashes, and to remember that the rain was “God’s good rainwater”. The men in the Life Saving Station (later the Coast Guard) kept close watch lest some ship should go ashore and need assistance At one time they were trying out the breeches buoy, a device now perfected and used for bringing ashore in a sling seat passengers from a ship in distress off shore, A shot, with rope attached was fired from shore to the deck of the ship and the passengers, one by one were hauled ashore. It so happened that one day the use of this device was to be demonstrated for the public. The deck of the ship was a platform erected at the water’s edge, the passenger to sit in the canvas sling, legs hanging free, to be hauled to the supposed shore. I volunteered as the passenger, climbed to the “deck”, sat in the breeches buoy and was on my thrilling way to safety, when the shore platform collapsed, dunking me, not in water, but on the hard sand. Much applause from the audience and much embarrassment. for the crew. Permitting driven by Mr. Williams, a big jolly man who smoked big black cigars – to the village for Church and then Sunday School. Mr. Burns, the superintendent, welcomed us warmly; I remember we children felt saddened and yet fascinated by the black patch he wore over one eye. It was always a great joy to us to be with the young people of what we vaguely felt was the real Charlevoix. More than that, they made us feel we belonged, that we weren’t merely summer visitors. We envied these children; they didn’t have to pack up and leave, come September; they could have Charlevoix all year round, stay and see it in all its autumn beauty.

Loyal as we were to our Indiana friends and home, we knew it would be hot and muggy wellinto October. Every Sunday “when Church and Sunday School were over, we hated to leave Charlevoix village.
Both my grandfather and my parents cherished their friendships with the Charlevoix residents. This feeling has persisted among other Belvedere people too, with the result that many of those who came to Belvedere as summer visitors have put down roots, made homes and stayed.

And so it was that one September our wishes came true. Papa reported unseasonable weather, warm and muggy, at home; Mamma’s hay fever, usually nonexistent in Charlevoix, was troubling. So the decision was made to keep the cottage open and put us in school in Charlevoix until Christmas time. I was a Senior in High School, the other three were in the grades. The Charlevoix School Board co-operated and we were admitted. I want to remember every hour of the wonderful three months. The three younger children walked the mile and a half from Belvedere to school, but I preferred the canoe. With the double paddle I could make good time from our boat house to the dock behind Hines’ Drug Store. It was only a few blocks to the High School but by the time I got there I was breathless, my face as red as my favorite red flannel shirt. Even so, I was in time to rush to the piano and play the march that ushered in all the High School students. I felt this honor so keenly that never, come hail or storm, was I too late. I could make the distance across Round Lake in shorter time at noon than the other children, who had to run both ways, as my brother, Gerald, remembers. That is until kind Mrs. Finucan rescued them and began giving them lunch. Another star in her crown

Very dear were those High School friends, Clyde and Clare Coulter, Winnie Weaver, Clare Finucan, the whole Finucan family, and Alma Francis, who lived at Gray Gables, a delightful guest house just outside the Resort grounds. Her father captained the good ship “Olympia”. More about him later. So many others whose names I have forgotten but who remain, nevertheless, in my memory. The teachers all seemed special for some reason; Mr. Woodley, Miss Harding, and one, my English teacher, whom I loved very much. She married Mr. Bellinger. Then there was handsome young Sammy Hess, black curly hair, the idol of all his girl students in Math. He made even that detested subject something to remember. Often – and this was another delightful innovation for which my mother was responsible – we four gathered, students and faculty alike, for parties at the  Blue Bell.

I know our debt to the Charlevoix residents is great, our debt and that of all Belvedere. Without their interest and help, both friendly and professional, we could not have lived happily, successful or safely at Belvedere. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, merchants, artisans, builders – all were a vital part of our  existence. As I think of each named occupation and service, names and faces and often voices come before my mind’s eye and ear; they are all very real and   treasured. A special part of the account of the Blue Bell life in particular would surely be devoted Mrs. Phillips who, every summer manicured, shined up and made beautifully clean the whole cottage for our home coming. Loyal Mrs. Brown fed us as no one in our childhood memory ever did. Then Maggie Glasgow and her husband were Mamma’s trusted standbys in many an emergency. They were caretakers for the Loeb estate, a gorgeous spread of gardens, stone mansions, purebred horses   and cattle, on the shore of Pine Lake, toward Ironton. Maggie considered the family a fine one, which suffered cruelly under the shame brought on by their son’s crime.

We hold in special loving memory John A. Johnson, born in 1836 and died in 1937 one hundred and one years of truly Christian living and service. He was a bugler in a Tennessee outfit, fighting for the Confederacy. He pulled up stakes and started north on foot. He was employed by the lumber mills on Round Lake, now the Charlevoix Lumber Company, Mr. E, J, Hiller still has the old payroll record showing that John A, Johnson received $1.00 per day, or less. Grandpa Johnson, as we children fondly called him, hauled the lumber to build the first big cottages at Belvedere, the Blue Bell. When it was completed he assumed the job as caretaker, and so remained until his ninety-ninth year. He cared for and loved four generations of our family who were in residence at the Blue Bell while he was alive. He planted and knew the age of every tree on the property. Truly he could not be left out of any history of Belvedere. He was there when it was founded by Oscar M, Allen.

On Memorial Day, years ago, we kids used to ask Grandpa Johnson why he was not in the Day’s Parade. His answer was that his uniform was the “wrong color”. But when he was about ninety-five or so, Charlevoix had run out of Civil War veterans, so the G.A.R. elected him an honorary member; he thereafter was in the Memorial Day doings – a Confederate soldier in the G.A.R,

In the early years Grandfather Allen gave “Johnson”, as he always lovingly and respectfully called him, one of his swallow tail grey coats. Grandpa Johnson, for well over sixty years wore it to attend church on Sunday, his beard well down to his brisket in front and the coat just a few inches above his ankles, as he walked from his home on Alice street to attend services. He had three children, Tom Johnson and two daughters, Mrs. Lynne of Charlevoix and Mrs. Foley of Petoskey. When we inquired about his family he would reply “My litlle girl is not too well” – his youngest, Mrs. Lynne being then seventy-two. In September, 1937, my brothers, Gerald and Emmet, flew to Charlevoix to be bearers at his funeral, at the Brookside Cemetery

A POT POURRI OF “REMEMBER WHEN S?”

When we all went by “dummy” and carry-all to the little lake up north of Petoskey – Wy Yugamug, where the Sioux Indiana were acting their pageant, “The Song of Hiawatha” in the beautiful natural setting of lake, woods and island? The wigwam of Nokomls on the shore, the lodge of Minnehaha, “Laughing Water”, * ‘ across on the little island, Hiawatha’s journey to claim his bride, and the final scene, Hiawatha’s being transported to the Happy Hunting Ground, the * far distant shore, standing erect in his canoe that moved across the water propelled by no visible hands, and the clear powerful voice of the Reader, giving us the story, I know there have been many changes in later years, but these scenes and I memories are as I love to recall them,

And the Indian women, babies in their carriers strapped to their backs, * ‘ who came to the Belvedere every summer with their exquisitely woven baskets of rushes and fragrant sweet grass, ornamented with beads and tinted porcupine quills? These quills we learned were made pliable and soft by being held in the mouths of the weavers.

 And the Armenians who came to the hotel with their beautiful embroidery   and laces? I can see them now as they displayed their lovely ware – very tempting ware – in the hotel parlor. Every mother bought at least one piece for her own household or for a daughter’s hope chest,

 Sunday night Song Services were always well attended because people love to sing. Often gifted singers took part, generous with their solos. I remember one in particular, a noted Indian evangelist. His splendid voice and leadership brought hearty response from the audience and the grand old hymns gave us all a lift. As a reward for good behavior, an evidence of our parent’s trust, we were given commutation tickets, good for twenty round trip rides on the dummy between Belvedere and Petoskey, twenty some miles north on Little Traverse Bay. Why we thought an ice cream soda at a drugstore counter in Petoskey would taste better than one at Beaman’s right here at home, I don’t know. Of course the soda itself really didn’t; what gave it the special flavor was undoubtedly the feeling of independence and adventure. The shops along the street going uphill from depot and down to town were fascinating. Curios, beautiful rugs, laces, linens; beads, candy, popcorn, Indian baskets and even waffles – all were on display i for us to enjoy as we sauntered up and down. I remember my first taste of Caillers Swiss Milk Chocolate Bar. Petoskey, being a city larger than Charlevoix, offered too, a wider selection of merchandise of every kind, and therefore drew trade.

Fishing at Charlevoix? Yes, we caught bass and perch from the docks and piers and bridges, but the real fisherman favored the small inland lakes within easy reach from Charlevoix. Let me interpolate here; my uncle and aunt, dedicated fishermen, used to leave their two sons with us, much to our delight, while they went to Walloon and other lakes. To my feminine mind, the best fish came from the fish wharves in Round Lake. The fish tugs brought in the netted whitefish from Lake Michigan and shipped them, packed in ice via the lake boats to the markets in Chicago and Milwaukee. One of these three-pounders, filleted or cleaned whole for baking was delicious. This reminds me of those trips we took on those fish tugs, going as far as Beaver Island, twenty miles or more north east of Charlevoix. Tons of fish came aboard in the nets. You might imagine that the smell of the fish plus the steady up and down, side to side motion of the tug would be a bit hard to take, but I can’t remember any one being seriously “disturbed”.

Remember when Mamma — so often we say to each other “remember Mamma” —a whole volume wouldn’t hold it. Anyway, remember when Mamma was the first woman, the first anybody, to dive off the railroad bridge into the channel? And when Emmet fell off the pier in front of the incoming “Manitou”? Mamma called to him, “Emmet, One-two-three” and he swam clear that well known command, heard many times meant “move” and we moved. Two more familiar expressions only a few of us now remember – Calla Travis, “One,two, three, HOP”

And the Indians (Chippewas, I think)! Each summer they held a camp meeting near – I think – Oyster Bay or Horton’s Bay, on Pine Lake. Many from Belvedere attended these meetings. Too, the Indians from time to time came in their canoes to Charlevoix to trade, stopping to pitch camp for the night on the little island – across the bayou from the Blue Bell. We could see their camp fires. Mamma would threaten, “Unless you children quiet down, I might just call those Indians over here!” Even Laura Geilfus took heed of that!   

 Can you remember the rich whole milk at five cents a quart that Mr. Widdefield delivered every day? One of his bills, so saying, is pinned to the wall of the den in the Blue Bell.

 And who could forget Grandma Vosburg and her white horse, the buggy loaded with vegetables and big ripe red “rozzburries” from her farm on Barnard Road? “All-oo” she’d call, in her wheezy deep voice, “Anybody home?” Always we’d gather round to have our fortunes told as she read them in the tea leaves. One prophesy I shall never forget. “You, Dorothy, will be the beauty, but Cecilia will wear the diamonds.” Well, now! Grandma claimed and had letters and documents which seemed to prove it, that she was a cousin of Queen Victoria. It seems that a young American country boy crossed to England on a merchant ship as a member of the crew, met the little girl, married her and brought her to this country. She was just fifteen and, as she told us many times, brought with her favorite doll. She and her young husband homesteaded a little farm – quite possibly the one on Barnard Road. She was already a great grandmother when knew her, and became a great-great before she died. Traces of her Victorian background were quite evident; witness one day when my sister, who was very fond of horses remarked, “Grandma, that is a nice mare you have”. Grandma was horrified, “Never use that word Say lady horse.”

 Does anyone at Belvedere remember or believe that there was a little river, an overhead rustic bridge and boathouses too, between the Pere Marquette railroad under our feet, ^That’s where the polly-wogs were; I quote my brother Gerald’s exact words to prove it. “Along in the late afternoon, if we didn’t swim back through the channel to the bayou or (these being my words) if we weren’t towed back on the end of a rope behind the motorboat), we would pick up our polly- wogs and a nice supply of thick gray clay (“Don’t bring that clay onto the porch!”) from the lake bottom in a bank just north along the swimming dock, and start home, making sure to keep well clear of the beds of poison ivy. Too, if the afternoon dummy had passed just about then, those hot cinders blown over the walk, might well blister feet.

Of course no one, young or old was really accepted until he had, by reputation t or certain knowledge, climbed to the top of Mt. McSauba and slid down, or Catapulted down, full of sand, brush, or perhaps a few poison ivy leaves – to the bottom. It was a memory that stayed with you, feeling you legs go knee deep in the sand as you made those mighty leaps down that dune. Twelve seconds was par for the course. ‘

There were a number of ways to get from Belvedere to the Inn, one of the most exciting being via trestle. Strangely, no one ever seemed to worry about getting back; somehow we always did. Anyway, here was a favorite. You start from the Belvedere station, walk the trestle to the bridge, timing your arrival to when the bridge was turned to let the dummy – already on its way from the Inn’s station-cross to the Belvedere side. If you didn’t make the bridge before the dummy did, – and you couldn’t hurry too much lest a leg drop through the spaces between the ties of the trestle, twelve feet above the ground, there you’d be, with no choice but to back-track, missing the spaces as best you could, to where the one ladder led down to the ground. Never for one moment did it occur to us that the engineer could, or would, stop the train to avoid knocking a child off the track. But then, where would be the thrill?

 Who could forget, in 1905 I think it was, when Ringling Brothers Big Circus “Showed” at Bay View? All of Belvedere, I’m sure, attended, going by boat or Pere Marquette dummy 25 cents round trip, Charlevoix to Bay View. The troupe of show elephants, who naturally like to swim, all at once decided to try Little Traverse Bay. The men of the circus swam horses out into the bay to gather up the elephants.

 One of our favorite jaunts was a trip with Mr. Francis in his boat, “The Olympia”   He used to take us and our young friends up to Holy Island, a delightful woodsy little spot in the south arm of Pine Lake. In those days Holy Island was uninhabited and the water was deep enough on the northerly side for the boats to land. The S. S. Pilgrim, later re-named to “Hum” used to stop from time to time at the Island. History tells us that the Mormons from Beaver Island, “King Strang’s” domain, had built a shrine there – we saw remnants of it – which was abandoned when they moved to Salt Lake City.  

She was only two, my little niece, but she knew what she wanted. “Go bean, see cawks!” she demanded. Bean, see cawks!” No one understood and she wept and would not be comforted. Finally the light dawned. “Go ravine, see crows”. We didn’t blame her. The shady walk south past the cottage on the terrace in the deep woods leads to the rustic bridge over the ravine. Cool, green, shadowy, it was a fascinating place. The banks on each side were steep, leading down to the little path bordered with moss and fern and low brush. The big trees at the tops of the banks made a canopy of shadow overhead. As we walked down the path our feet made no sound; in fact, there was no sound except the muted cries of the crows of the soft flapping of their black wings. Truly a magic place, and our own voices were muted. Then suddenly we emerged from shadow into sunlit green of meadow, and a fence that marked the west boundary of Belvedere, Even in my remembering I am loath to leave,

A picnic deluxe was an all day one on Lake Michigan Beach, This meant an early start and special preparations. Both rowboat and launch – of whatever type that year’s was, were needed. The list included blankets, pillows, bathing suits, towels, food, extra wraps, a good bundle of kindling, lest the supply of driftwood be not ample. After selecting a spot on the beach, we anchored the launch and like the Swiss Family Robinson, transferred ourselves and impediments to shore. Also, I must add, Mamma had a bag fully as magic as Mother Robinson’s from which she could, and did, pull anything and everything needed for any emergency. Since we would swim in the afternoon, we always took blankets and safety pins up to the woods above the beach and, selecting three or four trees spaced properly, pinned the blankets around them, making dressing rooms, one for the boys and one for the girls. Then came gathering driftwood for our fire to be built in the late afternoon after we came in from swimming. Wading, sand castles, hunting for Petoskey stones with their grey honeycombed crystal formations, – found, we believe only on Lake Michigan Beaches – filled the rest of the morning. Then came lunch and naps on the blankets and pillows in the shade. Those who did not nap explored the woods above the beach, hunting wintergreen leaves, avoiding poison ivy, and playing around the benches and platforms of the public park. Which was occupied usually only in the evenings for band concerts and town picnics and suppers. After naps we were all ready for our swim, wading or bathing, as the choice was. So different that swimming hour was from the usual one on Pine Lake.  Lake Michigan water was cold, and often rough; this made it exciting and a challenge to the daring. Always, however, from the shore was the watchful eye lest a wave flatten an unwary child. Roaring beach fire, supper, and sunset. Then back to the launch not forgetting to douse the fire completely – bags, blankets and babies – up . anchor and home to the Blue Bell. And the best part of it, as I think back, was that the ones who planned it all enjoyed it too.

 It is interesting and wonderful to remember the many stories that, with the precious old pictures still extant, have made the years very real when my uncles, my mother and her sister were the moving spirits of their day in Charlevoix and especially at the Blue Bell. One tale delights me, so very well it might have been today. Remember those rotundas on the second and third floors of the cottage? When Uncle Dee and Melissa Griswold were married at the Blue Bell, Dee hired a band from Detroit, his brother, Glenn, hired another from Grand Rapids.  These two bands played alternately, sometimes together, over the railings of the rotundas. As Mr. Hines, the old time druggist told my brother, the festivities kept the village of Charlevoix awake for days. Earlier, I mentioned the east bedroom upstairs as being the scene of some of my parent’s courting days. That brings to mind another dido strangely like the product of the hilarious teen-age mind of today

Papa was a guest and already considered as a possible member of the family.  He had completely won over my grandmother, and grandfather too, as it happened, although the latter was inclined to view with a jaundiced eye any man who dared hope to marry the beloved younger daughter, Fannie. Anyway, young Louie still had to win his spurs in the matter of brotherly approval. There had been a hilarious watermelon feast on the beach, and Papa, who had only recently arrived  from hot muggy Indiana was very tired • He went to bed in the east bedroom and slept soundly. During the night my uncles carried all the melon rinds up from the beach and piled them in front of Papa’s door, hoping the whole nasty mess would topple into the bedroom when he opened his door in the morning. However, early next morning, before anyone else was up, a sweet old maiden aunt had discovered the condition of things and quietly lugged the rinds away. At breakfast Uncle Dee greeted Papa with “How’d you sleep last night? Up pretty early, weren’t you?”. Papa, his handsome young Quaker face quite serene and innocent answered “No, didn’t get up specially early. Why?” That joke being a dud, they made up for it by allowing him, as a special favor to land lubber who wanted to learn the ropes, to pump out the center board well.

Having five brothers taught Mamma many things, many skills and ways to compensate for being a mere girl. Consequently, she sailed, she swam, she built camp fires, she was their peer. With their striped blazers, straw hats, guitars, banjos, songs, cotillions, masquerades, campfires, moonlight lake – all these things they enjoyed as did we in our time and as our children did and do. 4 As has been said, my two younger uncles, Dee and Glenn, sparked many of the escapades that have come down in history.

Uncle Dee was famous for his skill in disguising himself as a girl. On one occasion, before a masquerade, he was especially successful. Donning a gypsy costume, he mingled with the girls who were dressing in the room provided off the dance floor, and were busy lacing up their shoes when his hands gave him away.  I mentioned earlier in these reminiscences how great a part of our lives at Belvedere, boats and boating played, from the very early days. Thinking of the time when my mother and her brothers were young, their escapades, mentioned above, and their consuming interest in boats, I feel it would be worthwhile, while we still remember, to sketch briefly the history of those boats that meant so much to us all. First, the “Teaser”, a sloop sailor, owned by my uncles, and the “Dream”, a skimming dish. These won trophies in the regattas – I have held in my hands one of the lovely bowls. Then the two rowboats, described earlier, very much part of the Hollingsworth children’s fun. They were the “Fannie May”, my mother’s first name, and the “Lillah Belle”, my aunt’s name. The best remembered, and, I think, the best loved of the human propelled craft was the canoe, the “Gerald”, built by the Beauvais Brothers Boat and Canoe Company at Charlevoix. She was built by Mr. Mercer and Roy Ranger about 1900. Some years before Roy’s death, about three years ago, he told my brother Gerald that this canoe, still in Gerald’s possession, still in shape and seaworthy in 1967, was the oldest boat still seaworthy in the Charlevoix area. Her frame is oak, planking basswood, rails maple and front and stern deck ash. She still has the same old double paddle. Better than a pony and much more reliable to play with, we grew up with that canoe. No girl or boy was properly accredited until he or she could capsize it, slosh the water out, right it and climb in, over the bow if alone, or over the side if he had a partner. Nothing like the “Gerald” for a moonlight paddle out on Pine Lake or a quiet glide through the Little River around the Island.  That was my craft, remember, that carried me to High School the Fall we stayed over in Charlevoix. And let me tell you of another trip not so quiet. We had gone for a picnic on Two Mile Point, all of us, Mammal Papa, my aunt and we four children, taking the canoe and the rowboat. Late in the afternoon the weather looked threatening so we packed up and started home, papa at the oars in the rowboat with the three younger children and my aunt, Mamma and I took the canoe. The rowboat was sturdy and very seaworthy and Papa pulled a strong oar Without warning the weather thickened, making it tough going, especially for the canoe. Many places on the shore were rocky, making landing almost impossible. However, we could see the rowboat doing well; not so the canoe  Mamma, with the double paddle was doing her best to quarter the waves when she could, but was growing tired. However, the idea of going ashore, slashing up the canoe and – above all – quitting, was intolerable, “Sing, Cecilia!” shouted Mamma, and I sang, “Pull sailors, pull sailors”, Way down upon the Suwanee River”, “Row, row, row your boat!” and she kept time with her paddle strokes. When we reached the channel she just folded up in the bottom of the canoe, I grabbed the paddle and we made it home. So did Papa and the rowboat. Now we enter the modern age – that of Power Propulsion, First was the “Blue Bell” a naphtha launch. You started it up with an old fashioned kitchen match, the burning heat in turn heated the naphtha which gave the push to the wheel. Of course it regularly set fire to the awning. Or your coat or something, but it did go and we felt very elegant. My brother tells me there is one just like it in the Ford Museum at Greenfield Village, Dearborn Michigan. Here Mamma comes into the picture again. She was bringing the Blue Bell in from Lake Michigan and when she was about two miles out the engine ignited the awning. Mamma headed the boat into the wind, and was on the foredeck, most of her clothes off, ready to swim to shore, when the Life Guard arrived.  The next craft was the “Cecilia”, a steel Mullins boat with a 3 eyelet Ferro engine, speedy but temperamental. However, with five or six amateur mechanics to operate her, she was lots of fun. Many a time she towed us on a rope through the channel and into the bayou, saving us a walk home from the swimming dock. It’s a mercy we didn’t drown.  But the “Holly-Hoo” now, there was a boat! A 26 Chris Craft, she was a beauty. We used to go out to meet incoming ships when they were nearing the channel and to our shame, we must admit – gave the pilots nervous angry moments, crossing their bows.The latest is the “Golly-Hoo” a 26 foot surf boat, United States Coast Guard, rebuilt and still seaworthy in 196?• Now a few tid-bits of information from someone “in the know” of those early days, when, as now, there were many boats in and around the bayou, sailed then by the owners. They knew and maintained their own boats, could bend a bolin, tie a double-half hitch, splice their lines, even weave a turk’s head, and , so we’ve been told, could un-mast and roll their boat over (in the middle of the night before a race!) and coat the bottom with butter or lard, to gain . speed! And running a fine copper wire down through the center board of the opposing boat and attaching a rubber boot or bucket to slow the craft up. Of course we I feel sure this is ancient history.  Just to mention a few of the great sailors we knew so well » . Sam Bailey, his sloop the “Henrietta” and his two sailor daughters, Henrietta and Clara.  The Wares; Ralph, Hobbie, Bud and their sloop, the “Frolic”. Birdie Balch and his sloop. To list others briefly, whose boats were a delight to see Dallas. Boudeman – the “Jane” (naphtha) C. M. Christy — “Virginia” (gas boat),  James Dissette  “Oo Devil” (gas boat)  Sailing rowboat by Ida and Helen. Thomas L. Fekete – Insurance  “Vincedor” (power boat)  “Wop” “Damphino”  Since this section of our Chronicle is really a “pot pourri” we can let our thoughts and memories come as they will, and record them as we will, secure in the knowledge that they will be shared only by those who know and treasure them.

Here comes one ray sister will recognise} it is also, incidentally, about boats. Remember, early in this take, we mentioned the “Manitou” and our many trips aboard her? This one particular trip my sister and I were taking alone, from Chicago to Charlevoix. Since we knew our departure date well in advance, we  were told we could have our pick of stateroom. So, feeling very clever and important, we chose one on the starboard side, right up in front looking out over the bow through our window without getting out of our berths – the whole magnificent discovered risers had just as good, or better view of us.” Just now a letter came from my brother Gerald with a few more treasures of  memory and also .one concrete one – a check made out to Harrison Bedford for * groceries, dated September 15, 1900 and signed with my mother’s beautiful fine signature. Groceries! When I think what it must have cost, her in those days,  to feed that horde of hungry youngsters.  We didn’t know then, but we know now.  Gerald asked me if I remembered the big porches, the rocking chairs, the hammocks,  the beautiful luxuriant vines that made such a sanctuary of the front porches of the Blue Bell. Do I? Never shall I forget those moments when, at a dance I saw there was a blank space on my program, a dance – awful thought – I didn’t I have “taken”. Then was when I ran the short distance, three cottages away, to the Blue Bell and took refuge there in the porch, safe from pitying eyes. Concealed by the vines I waited, listening,while the music played for that untaken dance. Then, when it began again, I rushed back to the Casino, arriving breathless and innocent, to greet my partner who waited on the Casino porch for me. Plenty of hammocks there were in the Blue Bell, with hooks in almost every room – bedrooms too. And by actual count there are still twenty-five rocking chairs, single and double in that cottage. By the way, does anyone remember, when Mr. Glassford said “No.” how Mamma got the window she wanted in the east bedroom? There can be no end to memories like these, each one bringing with it another even more precious. Perhaps as time goes on, those of our younger generation will wish to add bits from their own lives. That would surely be delightful.

Perhaps, then it would be fitting to bring this chronical nearer the present by including the account of Armistice Day at Charlevoix, August 14, 1945, from the diary of Shirley Hollingworth Simpson, Mrs. Frank Simpson. August 14, 1945 l “This perhaps is the greatest day any of us will ever see. About six, President Truman announced that Japan had accepted an unconditional surrender.  Immediately following, here in Charlevoix the fire whistle blew once. Then after about two minutes we heard the horns downtown start, then the boat whistles and then the church bells. It was a hallowed moment – a moment of deep thankfulness that at last the war was over. For a while we stood out on the porch just listening. Then everyone, Daddy, Mother, Pop, Marita, Jane, Uncle Emmet, Frank and I all started talking, laughing, crying and hugging each other. It was almost unbelievable. We wanted to yell, shout, ring “bells or sing – just to Make any kind of a noise. We blew the car horn and Daddy rigged up a crow bar from the music room ceiling that we beat with a hammer. Everyone that passed the cottage grinned and waved and yelled. Irene Bisbee came over and we all went down to church for a few minutes. After that we all came back and had a few drinks. We went over to Kock’s with Toddy and Burke Upson, where there was lots of food but no liquor. We all sobered up! On the way home we passed a hundred t people going into the Hallett Hotel, led by three negro musicians. We followed them as they passed the cottage and all trooped into the Belvedere Hotel.  They all jammed into the lobby and a colored man sat down at the piano, and they started a jam session with everyone shouting, yelling and jitterbugging, From there we went down to Upson Point and were headed for the Lelands when the crowd saw Pop and Daddy with two bottles of whiskey and started chasing them. Pop gave it to Uncle Emmet’s to hide and that undid the whole parade and we went home and sat around til the wee hours. The Stewart Clan, Marg and Bob Rowe,   Mrs, Retherford, Elaine and Stew were also here. We all felt terrible the next day. Imagine!I

It has been my endeavor and privilege, as memory serves, and with the help of my brothers and sister, to recreate and preserve, for our children and those who follow them the life we lived as children and young adults at Belvedere in Charlevoix-the-Beautiful. $$$$

 
Cecilia Hollingsworth Chadbourne – August, 1967

Memories of Potter Orr – June 2017

My great-grandparents Mr. and Mrs. Frank H Simpson first came to Charlevoix in the early 1900s. While I do not know exactly what year they started coming, but the Belvedere Hotel register from the summer of 1913 survives and I found their names on the page for August 13. As was customary in those days everyone who was staying in the room was listed on the register. That included both my great-grandparents and their four daughters, one of whom was Eleanor Simpson, later Eleanor Orr.

I’m sure they left Cincinnati to avoid its lovely summer weather in those days before air conditioning existed. The Belvedere hotel had been designed specifically to entice visitors to Charlevoix in the hopes that they would buy cottages on the resort. It worked. In 1920 the Simpsons bought cottage 511.

I’ve not been able to trace the exact construction date of 511 but a hand-painted postcard from 1906 shows it in the stucco and beam configuration that I have known all my life. There are, however, pictures of the cottage from an earlier time when the outside was plain wooden siding painted a lovely olive drab color. When we made changes to the cottage in 2002 and had to remove part of the stucco, those olive color boards were found underneath.  In 1920 the cottage had three family bedrooms, two servants rooms and one more small bedroom. In addition, it had one bathroom upstairs at the end of the hall and a half bathroom on the semi-enclosed back porch.

The Simpsons (my great-grandparents ) had one son, Harold, in addition to the four sisters. Although he was not with the family in the hotel in 1913, he must of been a regular visitor at 511. The story goes that the owner of the cottage next-door, number 509, was an avid fisherman. As such, he liked to rise early in the morning for the prime early fishing. One day he came over to 511 and asked if anyone there would like to buy his cottage. He said that the Simpson clan was so loud and partied so late that he could not get to sleep early enough for his planned hour of awakening. He asked the Simpsons first about buying the cottage since he could not imagine that anyone else would be interested. Harold must have decided that he was either not going to inherit the cottage or did not want to wait that long so he bought 509. His grandchildren, the Bemises  and Parrishes own that cottage today.

 I don’t know exactly how it came about but my grandmother Eleanor Simpson Orr inherited 511 from her mother the first thing she did was tackle the bathroom situation. One small bedroom at the head of the stairs was split into two full bathrooms (showers only) which doubled the plumbing in the house.

This change did reduce the cottage to two bedrooms for the family since in common with many of her generation, she would never have considered going to Charlevoix without Emma, Catherine and Lafayette, the maid, cook and butler/chauffeur respectively.

In addition to brother Harold in the cottage next-door, one of my grandmothers sisters, Fran Simpson Cartwright, owned cottage 515. This was a typical old frame cottage on the site now occupied by the more modern Trulaske (formerly Connett) cottage. Her husband Bill Cartwright love to sit in his rocking chair on the porch looking across the mouth of the channel directly at what is now the Coast Guard station. He also considered it his mission in life to control speeding in the channel. He was possessed of a wonderful bellowing voice and when he thought someone was going too fast in the channel he would yell for them to slow down. If they failed to comply, he kept a small brass carbide cannon next to his chair and he would pull the lanyard. This cannon fired blanks but was incredibly loud and the sound echoed very nicely back and forth across the channel. It was astonishing how quickly the boats would slow down in response to this treatment.

My Orr grandparents in 511, of course, spent their summers on the Belvedere even during prohibition. The proximity of Charlevoix to Canada (who had nothing to do with the prohibition silliness) was an additional incentive. There were a number of bootleggers who would take off in fast speed boat from Charlevoix and make a run to Canada. Full to the brim with Canadian liquor they would make the nighttime run back to Charlevoix. My grandmother Orr was a very good customer of one of the local bootleggers and was often regaled with his tales of avoiding the Feds. One night on his return he pulled into a Belvedere boathouse only to find a federal revenue agent waiting for him. Seeming to have no choice, even before tying up he invited the agent aboard. As the Revenuer stepped from the dock to the boat, the boat was slammed into reverse and the engine gunned. This left a very wet federal agent floating in the boathouse and provided time to dock elsewhere and unload all the evidence.

Libby and Wally Rowe from Cincinnati were very good friends of the Orrs in 511. One summer during prohibition they were invited to visit. At the time there was actually air service between Cincinnati and Charlevoix using the venerable DC-3 planes. The only problem with this was the weather between Cincinnati and Charlevoix. Not being able to fly above most weather as jets are these days, the DC-3s had to pick their way between thunderstorms that like to inhabit the Ohio Indiana border. Since it was prohibition the Rowes were bringing a particularly fine bottle of scotch as a house present. Their plane was severely bounced for most of the flight and they needed something to calm them. By the time the plane touched down in Charlevoix, the house present had been completely drained. They had a nice visit Charlevoix anyway little suspecting that their granddaughter, Sandy, would marry into this very cottage 30 or so years later.

In the early 1940s Irene and Dick Leatherman from Robinsonville Mississippi bought cottage 519 which was just across the small driveway circle from 511. They were almost exactly the same age as the Orrs and shared the same interests – golfing and partying. Irene Leatherman had a first cousin named Irene Bond whose parents died when she was a teenager. She went to live with her aunt and uncle and first cousin Irene Morrow (Leatherman). That meant that there were two girls only a year apart both with the first name of Irene living in the same house. It made for great confusion but also for these two cousins feeling like sisters. Irene Bond later married Walter McDonnell and at about the same time that Irene Leatherman and bought a cottage in Belvedere, Irene McDonell did as well. The McDonnell-Hill part of the family has also become a large presence on the resort.

My father, Jim Orr, spent many of his early summers at 511 and was often thrown together with Kate Leatherman since their respective parents were such good friends. Kate was four years younger than Jim and treated by him with the usual disdain of somebody that much younger.

 After a few years of staying home to work in the summers, Jim came back Charlevoix at age 20 and was greatly surprised to see what had become of the little girl from next-door. Kate was now 16. They were married three years later.  This Belvedere marriage, or merger, while not unique, was one of the larger ones for Belvedere. My family on both sides had a lot of members of the club.

 My birthday is in October and I always add an extra year to the amount of time I have spent in Charlevoix since I know for sure that I was there in utero during the summer of 1947. I’ve had the wonderful good fortune to have been in Charlevoix at least a portion of every summer since then.

 My childhood summer routine was fairly simple. I would come to Charlevoix around July 1 and spend the month of July with one grandmother. At the end of the month I would pack my worldly belongings and trudge across the back circle to spend August with the other grandmother. Even as a child I recognized that this was a pretty sweet deal. What did not dawn on me until I had children of my own was that this left my parents childless all summer.

When I was young the trip from Cincinnati to Charlevoix was always a trial. Going north in the early 1950s made for a very long day as no interstate highways had yet been built. In addition to driving my parents crazy with the typical childhood question of “are we there yet”, the hilly two lane roads provoked multiple bouts of car sickness.

 There was an alternative that I got to use a couple of times, an overnight train from Cincinnati to Petoskey. The best of those rides was the summer when I was eight years old. Mother drove my brother Ted and I to Union terminal just outside downtown Cincinnati. We waited on the platform as the overnight train from Memphis pulled in. Mother got on the train only long enough to deliver us to one of grandmother Leatherman’s child handlers. She was already ensconced in a large bedroom on the train with three of my Leatherman first cousins – Dick, Mary and Irene. Adding my brother and I meant the poor nurse had to cope with five children ranging in age from 4 to 8 during that overnight train ride. Our nurse did have one advantage not available today. Proverbs 13:24 “Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them”. Every nurse I can remember as a child was a staunch believer in that passage. Although I cannot remember ever being spanked by either of my parents, they did hire professionals to do it for them. Being the oldest I’m sure that I got more than my fair share of the spankings but I loved all my nurses just the same. Only once did I get what I believe was an unjustified spanking.

 My grandmother Leatherman had the same theory about servants in Michigan as my grandmother Orr. She actually would have four in residence most of the summer. In addition to a cook, a maid and a chauffeur, she would bring a nurse to take charge of all the grandchildren. Cottage 519 had two bedrooms and a bathroom added onto the back of the first floor of the cottage to house grandchildren and their nurse. The only downside of this arrangement was that these rooms were reached by a door at the end of the dining room. Family alone would fill at least half fill the dining room every evening and many nights friends or other relatives filled the table completely.

 Dinner was usually served late and the well lubricated group did not exactly whisper at the table. This would often wake me up and I naturally wanted to join the fun. Since the door to the dining room was right next to the door to my room I soon learned to operate the doorknob and became a problem. Not long after a latch was installed in that door about 5 feet up and ended my adventuring.

Following southern tradition, children at the Leatherman cottage ate their meals in the kitchen and of course much earlier than the adults. We learned early that if we planned to enjoy the wonderful southern biscuits produced for almost every meal we had to guard them carefully. Many adult relatives, especially Bobby Morrow, would come through the kitchen while we were eating dinner and biscuits of the unwary have a habit of disappearing.

 By the time I was aware of appliances, it was 1952 and like most houses at that time both our house in Cincinnati and 519 had an electric refrigerator. The back porch at 519, however, was absolute magic to young child. In addition to the electric refrigerator there was a genuine icebox. It had no plug but two or three times a week the ice truck would pull up the back door and a man would come in with a particularly evil set of looking set of metal tongs carrying a cube of ice about a foot square to the icebox. Soft drinks and beer were kept in the icebox and every evening at cocktail hour the ice bucket was filled by using an ice pick to chip off of those blocks. We would beg for chips of that ice to suck. I always thought that ice tasted special but at the time I had no idea why. Later I found out that the blocks that came to our house had started life as huge blocks sawn from the frozen lake Charlevoix each winter. Since it came out of the lake frozen and remained that way until consumed there was no filtering or purification involved. I’m sure that in wintertime the lake water was pretty pure but it may also have served to bolster our young immune systems.

Up until 1960 when it was torn down, the Belvedere Hotel was an ongoing attraction for children living on the resort. The counter in the lobby of the hotel stocked a huge selection of candy. In those days the proverbial “two nickels to rub together” was a fortune that merited a trip across Belvedere Avenue to buy candy. Loose change left on countertops made its way to the hotel. In addition, a couple times a week a huge bingo game was held in the main part of the hotel. On some occasions we would be allowed to attend the bingo game in hopes of winning a fortune to spend the candy counter. These were the good old days and no child was allowed in the hotel parlor in the evening for bingo unless they were dressed in their Sunday finest. It is now an awful lot of years later, but I swear I never one a bingo game in my entire young life.

 All through the 1950s and 60s (and perhaps a little later) many of the residents of Belvedere brought household servants with them to Charlevoix. The tradition of the time was that servants had Thursday and Sunday off. In addition, at least half of the cottages with servants would contribute the loan of a car for the days off. While I never got to hear all of the details I often wondered who had the most interesting social lives during the summer the resort members or their help. Caravans from the Belvedere saw all of the sites of northern Michigan on those Thursdays and Sundays. Parties on Sunday nights resulted in many bleary eyes on Monday mornings.

One of the cardinal sins for any Belvedere member was “poaching” the servant of another member. For many years my grandfather Dick Leatherman brought his chauffeur/butler and right hand man, Woody B, to Charlevoix. Over the course of several summers Woody developed a romantic interest in the young lady who worked for Dick Moss. Either as a result of that interest or an offer from Dick Moss (I still have no desire to take sides), Woody B moved to St. Louis and went to work for Mr. Moss. Prior to this incident Dick Moss and Dick Leatherman had been best friends but afterwards they were estranged for several years.

The merchants of Charleroi all figured out in short order how the system worked for most Belvedere residents. The Neff Brothers grocery store had it down to a science. They established a charge account for any Belvedere cottage owner who wished to have one. They would take orders by phone from each cottage’s cook and would then deliver the groceries. While we never knew for sure, it seemed clear that this was a profitable enough business in the summer months to carry the store on your round. This was confirmed for me one year when my mother and father came back from a skiing trip in Vail Colorado and told me that in the chairlift line they had run into Mr. Neff from Charlevoix.

Perhaps one of the biggest changes I’ve seen in the resort during my lifetime is the almost total disappearance of live-in help. As mentioned above, when I was a child there was a huge population of help on the resort and there almost none left. It is by and large representative of the change in lifestyle over the years that has left most cottage owners with a number of very small bedrooms. For most of us this is not a problem, we just stick small children in the in those rooms.

 I need to do some research to find out exactly when gang was started. It seems odd to me that I don’t know the answer to that question but certainly he was going strong by 1952. No adult in any part of my family would countenance the concept of a gang age child not going to gang, but I couldn’t wait to leave the house in the morning. Friends that you see for only a portion of the year and that under the best conditions imaginable for children are the best and most long-lasting of friends. A couple of years ago playing golf on the Belvedere I looked around at the foursome and realized that I had been playing games with the same guys for over 60 years.

 Gang activities have changed over the years. When I was a gangster, in addition to tennis, golf and swimming, someone thought sailing was very important. The club’s fleet of sailboats at the time were called Rockets and they were all wooden boats of about 15 feet. We had sailing lessons at least two half-days each week and two full-scale sailboat races each week in addition. The lessons included classroom time learning to tie a variety of sailing knots and learning the precise name of each component of the boat and each part of the sail. In the races each boat was skippered by a gangster with an adult advisor on board. Careful tally was kept during the summer of the number of victories for each skipper and a trophy was awarded at Cabaret at the end of the year.

 During the 50’s and 60’s the resort was able to attract college graduate students as gang leaders. Bobby Schrock was a gang leader of mine he was in medical school. One year big gang leader was a gentleman named Dave Sime. During that summer he did an awful lot of running, some of it wearing small belts of lead weights around his ankles. One day he challenged me to a race along the flat stretch of Ferry Avenue from the casino down towards the sidewalk to the beach. He would run and I got to ride my bicycle. I lost, badly. Not long after that I found out why. Dave was training for the Olympics and he would very shortly become the co-holder of the world’s record for the 100 yard dash –  9.3 seconds.  This also gave him the title of “World’s fastest man”.

 Another big change in gang has been overnights. The 1950s and 60s were both a safer time and far less litigious. Our gang overnights were always well away from the resort, sometimes a long way away and at least once a year while I was in big gang we did two night overnights.  The 2 nighter I remember best was in the campground at Waugoshance Point State Park.  This point juts far west into Lake Michigan to form the southwest edge of the straits of Mackinack.  The big Mac bridge is visible from almost everywhere in the park.

 I believe in gang is the most important facet of life on the Belvedere. Each succeeding generation of children are taught the important skills required for enjoying the northern Michigan summer. But there to even more important factors. First, the friendships developed among gang members last a lifetime. Knowing that returning to Belvedere will give you an opportunity to again see lifetime friends is a real incentive to come north of the summer. Second, gang allows young parents to actually have a vacation. Many newly married young adults would often like to go somewhere for vacation other than where their parents have always taken them, but they realize that if they go back to Belvedere the kids can go to gang. Finally, Belvedere is one of the few places left in the world where relatively young children can be allowed to go free range. Almost as soon as they are old enough to know how to swim, kids can be safely set free within the confines of the resort. We really are a family in the sense that almost all adults would happily discipline someone else’s children if they thought they needed.

 1960 at Belvedere was shaping up to be a very perilous year resort. Gang up until then had ended for children once they passed age 12. That year there were nearly 20 of us baby boomers would turn 13. The powers that be were justifiably frightened of that many children that age running unsupervised on the resort. The answer was simple, teenage gang. Butch Mullen had just been married and was in graduate school. He and his wife Ann were quite happy to have the job as team gang leaders for the summer. There was some initial reluctance among the kids but all the parents were able to maintain a united front and we went off to teen gang. Truth be told, it was an awful lot of fun. Butch had been a gangster himself and he knew the drill.  Teen gang was an extension of the activities we all enjoyed all our lives with some slightly more adult activities thrown in. I remember a group of us complaining bitterly that we did not want to have bridge lessons as that was an activity for old people. Butch’s reply was very straightforward:  “As an activity with your friends necking won’t last but bridge will”.

 As our group reached 16 and mostly had summer jobs, teen gang faded away. It has been revived from time to time whenever a dangerously large number of 13-year-olds might be coming to Belvedere.

 Even when we were 16 and 17 there would often be a lot of us on the resort at the same time during the summer and while we couldn’t quite be corralled for teen gang, perhaps we should have been. I’m sure that for the entire history of the resort 16 and 17-year-olds have done plenty of stupid things and we were no exception.

 One year the Retherfords bought a new Century speedboat mostly for the use of daughters Lee and Lynn. The water skiers among us were awed by the amazing power of this new boat and decided that it could probably pull a lot of water skiers at once. After scavenging equipment from practically every boathouse and an hour or so of logistics we found that it was possible to arrange 10 skiers behind a single boat. It turns out that there really isn’t room for 10 skiers behind a single boat but only two of them fell off and for about a half a mile we actually had eight people pulled out of the water skiing behind a single boat with no drowning.

 In response to someone’s dare a group of us decided that we could swim from Two Mile point back to the Belvedere Beach. Those not directly involved in this insanity did at least come up with two or three boats to motor slowly alongside the swimmers to make sure we didn’t lose anybody. This would actually have worked out quite well except that this was during the period when the lakes were infested with lamprey eels. Now lampreys actually have no interest in warm-blooded creatures however they don’t know we are warm-blooded until after the attempt to attach themselves. Being attacked in mid-lake is not conducive to successful swimming so it was good that we had the safety boats alongside.

 Another day while swimming from  anchored boats in Loeb’s Cove, we noticed that on the bottom just at the edge of the drop off were hundreds of clams. This was in the days before the zebra mussels and these were big clams typically 3 to 4 inch long shells. They certainly looked like they ought to be edible so we spent a good part of an afternoon harvesting about four dozen of them. Chipper Ransom’s family had a cottage outside Belvedere on a hilltop just off the Boyne City Road. This was a favorite party spot since no one could see or hear us and we adjourned there with our clams. Over the next several hours we established to everyone’s satisfaction that while these clams were fortunately not poisonous, they were in no way edible. We boiled, we steamed and we fried. None of it helped.

 We were very close knit group and almost never would we embark on an adventure if everyone in the group couldn’t come along. Sudi Ware (Alexander) had a little better sense than most of us and on several occasions she was able to sidetrack a particularly stupid venture. She was from San Antonio and her mother always brought a nice lady along from Texas to supervise the children – still including Sudi.  When she thought we were really going off the rails, Sudi would announce that she needed to call home and check for permission. Asking for permission always took place in Spanish which none of the rest of us could understand. After a prolonged conversation Sudi would turn to us and say with a terribly disappointed look on her face that she wasn’t allowed to go. We didn’t want to leave her behind so we would abandon the project. I found out much later that in most cases that Spanish conversation consisted of Sudi saying “these guys want to do something really dumb, would you please be so good as to forbid me?”

When I was 16 I managed to arrange for my girlfriend to come and visit me in Charlevoix. Sandy Rowe came and stayed in 511 subject to the fairly lax chaperonage of my grandmother Orr. Being an athlete and adventurer Sandy fit quite nicely into my group of friends on the resort. As of this writing she has been coming to the Belvedere for 54 years. By the standards of my most diehard friends, this still qualifies as a “short timer” but I never mention that to her.. She did tell me later that after spending time in Charlevoix she decided that she really ought to try and hang on to me so that she could return. In addition to my huge crowd of relatives on the resort, it turned out that Sandy had a relative there as well. Betty Forker was Sandy’s father’s first cousin.

 At age 16 I was clearly not thinking long term but Sandy’s visit may well have amounted to the well-known resort institution called the “Belvedere test”. Over the years I have seen many long-term denizens of the resort in their early 20s bring a serious significant other for a visit. I’m sure that almost none of the guests realized that they were being tested but not fitting in on the resort is often a disqualification for further consideration as a mate.  The test can be a major challenge as breaking in to a group that has known each other their entire lives if not easy.

 In the 1960s most people stayed in Charlevoix until Labor Day and at the end of the season when all tournaments have been concluded, the resort staged a huge party at the casino- Cabaret.  This was a homegrown musical show in the platform for the distribution of innumerable trophies. Cabaret in the summer of 1964 was a musical about the upcoming presidential election. Two different groups of cavemen were lobbying for either Goldrock or Johnstone.  My first and only musical adventure was in this cabaret. Everyone who heard me agreed that singing out loud in public was something I should avoid the rest of my life. We did have a great time with the cabaret including building a 16 foot long dinosaur of papier-mâché made from newspapers over chicken wire over a wooden frame. Just because we thought it would be fun (albeit not realistic) we decided that this needed to be a fire breathing dinosaur. A plumber’s propane torch in the dinosaurs mouth seemed like a really good idea until the dinosaur caught fire.

 I count myself very lucky that even after my teenage years were over I still have the opportunity to come to Charleroi every summer. As soon as my children were old enough they went off to gain every single day. Daughter Mimi spent a couple of summers as a gang leader and son Jimmy was a teen gang leader for two summers. Now I’m able to send my grandchildren off to gang. They are the six generation of the family to stay in 511 and they have the rare privilege of getting to play with some of their fourth cousins.

 With these young ones in gang I spent a little more time at the Belvedere Beach that I have for quite a few years.  I have noticed that much of the equipment in use today for the gang at the beach is exactly the same as what I used in gang. I remember as a very young gangster taking trips in the Grumman aluminum canoes. 60 years later they look none the worse for wear. As I’ve recently been going through old photographs in an effort to organize and conserve, I found a picture of myself on the beach merry-go-round when I was two years old. The big slide on the beach has been there just as long. Each of the resort spared no expense in both the very best or more likely manufacturing standards for practically everything were just a bit higher 65 years ago.

 Like most native Belvederians I have very different standards as to what constitutes swimmable water than most of the world. Anything at 65° or higher seems just fine to me. I count is lost in the day that I’m unable to spend time either in or on one of the lakes. I’ve been paying careful attention to the lakes long enough to have seen their natural cycles and a lot of changes-both good and bad.

 The Great Lakes as a whole a remarkable for the volume of water that they hold practically since their drainage basin is relatively small. The cottage at 519 had a wonderful card table the top of which was a map of the Great Lakes. A thin dotted line surrounding the entire system showed the limits of the drainage basin, the area whose rainfall drains into the Great Lakes. That line extends only about a third of the way down the state of Ohio, anything soft about line ending up in the Ohio River. In Illinois, the line is also surprisingly close to Lake Michigan with any water falling in the Western portion of the state draining to the Mississippi River instead. One of the attractions Charlevoix in the summer is both the cool weather and the lack of extended periods of rain that might spoil our outdoor activities. To keep up the lake levels, we depend on winter storms which we fortunately do not have to personally endure. Even so, the level of the Great Lakes (and Lake Charlevoix which is attached) vary wildly.

 There is a rough 20 year cycle between the highest and lowest water levels but that cycle is so long that many forget. I remember prognostications of doom in the middle 1960s when the lake was at historic lows. In those years if you walked to the end of the waterskiing dock placed south of the Belvedere Beach and jumped into the water you would find it only 6 inches deep. Dredging was required in all of the boathouses to make them usable and it was a very long step down into every boat. Many people assured me that the days the Great Lakes were over and they were on the path to dry up completely.  Fast forward about 20 years to 1985 and we find Lake Charlevoix within an inch or two of covering the road behind the casino that leads to the beach. Now we were building add-ons to sit on top of the existing docks in each boathouse because the normal ones were underwater and building sandbag barriers behind the Casino. More tales of gloom and doom were bandied about some people were certain that within another two years we would have no beach left at all. Since then the lake levels have wandered up and down within the boundaries of normal. A couple of years ago we were very low when the Detroit River was dredged increasing the outflow into Lake Erie at the same time the Chicago River was reversed to provide extra water to support barge traffic on the Mississippi. This double whammy took our lakes way down but now they have recovered to the point where we needed to dump additional rock along the shoreline between the casino and the channel. I expect further changes.

It is been interesting over the years to observe not just the level of water in the lakes but also the content. As the St. Lawrence River in the lower Great Lakes have been opened to oceangoing ships, a variety of unwelcome visitors joined us. Sometime about the middle 1960s a creature called the lamprey eel found its way into the Great Lakes. The lamprey is a very primitive parasitic fish, although it is technically not considered a fish since it has a cartilage cord instead of an actual backbone. The eel feeds by attaching itself using a suction cup type of mouth to the side of a regular fish. Once attached it slowly sucks all of the blood out of the fish killing it. Once the host is gone, the eel looks for another one. These eels have no natural enemies in the Great Lakes and they nearly drove our largest fish, Lake Trout and lake whitefish to extinction. When those populations were nearly gone, the eels moved on to smallmouth Bass and even lake perch. Having caused the problem in the first place human beings have tried to fix it. Eels like many other creatures surviving in the lakes and oceans prefer to spawn in smaller streams. The first approach was to install electric fences across the mouths of the primary breeding streams and rivers. These fences always had an opening at one end and most fish were able to sense the electric current and find the opening. The lampreys with their very primitive nervous systems were unable to detect the electrical field before swimming in it and being killed. While the system was a help it was too expensive to put on every little stream. Fortunately someone was able to develop a powdered poison to be dropped into smaller streams that would suffocate eel larvae in the streambed without adversely affecting other fish.

Once the population was reduced to a manageable level it was time to attempt to rebuild the population of Lake trout and whitefish. Unfortunately about that time the next unwelcome visitor arrived – the alewife. This is a nasty little 5 inch long fish from the ocean who seems quite able to live in freshwater. By all accounts they are nearly worthless. Not only are they considered inedible by people but they don’t even make satisfactory cat food. They arrived at a time when the only fish large enough to be predators, the lake trout, were almost gone. Alewives multiplied beyond reason and were very hard on a number of other native species, like perch, because they ate the same food. Many of you will remember summers when the population of alewives had outgrown the food supply and they died by the billions only to wash up on our beaches and rot and stink. Luckily for all of us the Michigan state department of fisheries was able to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Turns out that in the ocean the major predators of alewives are salmon. Salmon are all born and then spawn in freshwater but spend the rest of their lives in saltwater. After years of effort three species of salmon –  Coho, King and Chinook were adapted to spend their entire lives in freshwater. These fish were aggressively stocked in the Great Lakes and soon brought the population of alewives down to a very manageable level. This was a double win for the state of Michigan since people anxious to catch salmon contribute millions of dollars to the state economy every year.

 Just when it looked like the Great Lakes were back in balance zebra mussels arrived. These fingernail-sized shellfish arrived in ballast water of oceangoing ships and went crazy in our lakes. They spawn like crazy and attach themselves in clusters to anything in the lake that is not moving. Like all shellfish the feed by straining microscopic food from the water. They been very damaging to the native population of shellfish because they steal all the food. They have another effect that has been the good news/bad news result for the lakes. There so many of them that their feeding has made the water of the lakes noticeably clearer than it has been in a long time. In Lake Michigan Lake Charlevoix boy this is generally a good thing. In the smaller inland lakes this extra clarity of water is been a real problem. Since these lakes are much shallower the clarity of the water now allows weeds to grow up from the bottom of the lake. This clogs the lake and boat propellers during the growing months then creates an even worse problem in the winter. When it gets cold all of these plants die and then sink to the bottom of the lake where they rot. The rotting process uses up much of the dissolved oxygen in the water and many of the fish in the small lakes then suffocate. No miracle cures yet been found zebra mussels.

The year I was born my grandfather Leatherman, his brother-in-law and a cousin decided that the family needed a boat. They bought a 1948 22 foot Chris-Craft mahogany speedboat and named it “Rebels”. The boat was shared among three or four related families. This made for a hard life for Rebels. Everybody who reached teenage years wanted to drive the boat and it had to suffer through the learning curve for every one of them. Despite being a bit underpowered it would pull water skiers. It can hold about a dozen people in a pinch and was perfect for general sightseeing and beachside picnics. The fact that it still in one piece is testimony to its durability. Before the bottom of the boat was replaced about 10 years ago it sank several times tied to the docks in the boathouse and it was subject to one rather spectacular sinking in Lake Michigan off of North point. A relative of mine, who shall remain nameless, was out touring in one of the years with relatively low lake levels. He was not aware that shallow water extends way out from the points in Lake Michigan.  Around North Point just underwater are boulders about the size of a cottage. He hit one of those at cruising speed sending the propeller and the rudder up through the bottom of the boat. Despite being made of wood, the steel block of the six-cylinder engine was enough weight to send the boat straight to the bottom. Luckily the bottom there was only about 20 feet and the folks from Bellinger Marine pulled it up, towed it in and put it back together.

Eventually Dick Leatherman and the original owners got tired of paying the bills and passed ownership of the boat down to the next generation including my father Jim Orr, my uncle Richard Leatherman and at least one of the relative. Finally over a number of years the other owners got tired of paying and my father ended up with the whole boat. His third wife was not a fan of Belvedere and he came to me one day and asked if my siblings and I would like to buy the cottage since he was planning on selling it. I exercised admirable restraint and didn’t tell him that I was planning on inheriting the cottage the way he did. We negotiated a reasonable deal for the cottage. When I thought everything was settled my father said to me “Oh by the way, if you want to buy the cottage you have to take the boat too”. He didn’t ask for any extra money for the boat, but just wanted out from underneath the bills.