Early February call

The early February edition of The North Woods Call was published this week.  Featured are a variety of photos from the north country, as well as stories about invasive species, lake-effect snow, "climate change," wolf hunting and an environmental report card for  Gov. Rick Snyder from the Michigan League of Conservation Voters.  Also, the formal obituary for Mary Lou Sheppard, who published The North Woods Call for many years with her late husband, Glen.

Late-January issue coming soon

The late-January edition of The North Woods Call will be out in about a week.  Featured will be articles on Upper Peninsula mining, gun control, the recent death of Mary Lou Sheppard, the conservation efforts of the late Guy Kistler and much more.

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Mary Lou Sheppard dies

Mary Lou Sheppard, widow and longtime business partner of former North Woods Call publisher Glen Sheppard, died December 29 at her Charlevoix-area home.  She was 79.

Sheppard was preceded in death by her husband in early 2011 and had been battling cancer in recent months.  As of this writing, no memorial services had been scheduled.

Walking Christmas morning

     For the past several years, it has been my practice to take a pre-dawn walk on Christmas morning through the rural neighborhood in which I grew up.
     It is the best time of the year to be walking.  The world’s usual frantic pace has temporarily slowed and automobile traffic is light—practically nonexistent if you go early enough.  There is a special serenity in the air that is uncommon on other days.
     I recall one such morning a few years ago.  The sun was just beginning to rise and a nearly full moon hung brightly above, covered by a thin veil of cirrocumulus clouds.  The sky appeared red and rippled like the chiseled muscles of an athlete’s abdomen.
     An eerie vapor floated upward from the chilly waters of tiny Bonnie Brook and I could hear the gentle current gurgling around small stones, fallen logs and beds of still-green watercress.
    Some homes remained dark and still, while others were lit by multi-colored Christmas lights that flickered through tightly closed draperies.  As usual, I saw no one, but knew there were children smiling and giggling inside the warm structures, as they discovered the toys and gifts that mysteriously appeared overnight.
     Passing by the green two-story house where I spent my formative years, I thought about the many happy Christmases spent within those walls—waking early to run down the long wooden staircase with my older sister to see what jolly old Santa left behind.
     There was unfettered magic in finding the red-and-white stockings our mother made hanging on the oak-trimmed wall, stuffed with pencils, candy and assorted other goodies.
   I have often wondered how many other Christmases were celebrated in the same small rooms during the early 1900s, when others lived in the house and farmed the valley floor.  Who were the rosy-cheeked children of those days, giggling with delight at the things they found under their yuletide tree?
     I contemplate these questions each year and try to imagine youngsters from another era running down the same stairway in the pre-dawn hours to see what St. Nicholas had left for them.  My own father was one of them, having lived in the house himself as a child.
     Each year about this time, my mind generally wanders back to some of the childhood gifts I remember most—toy cars and trucks, BB-guns, assorted games, a 15-pound bow and matching arrow set, miscellaneous clothing, toy rifles and pistols, and lots of Hardy Boy mystery books.
     On my walks, I often hum a few bars of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” or some other Christmas song, as I continue up the road.  When I cross meandering Spring Brook, I usually stop to look into the clear, cold water.
     There are greater gifts than the ones we find under our Christmas trees, I remind myself, then offer a small prayer of thanksgiving for the narrow trout stream, the snow, and life itself.
     A half-mile further—past the local rod and gun club—I will pause again and gaze up a long driveway toward the tiny house where my grandfather lived until his death more than 45 years ago.  I remember sledding with my cousins and neighborhood friends on the steep slopes behind the house.
     Across the two-lane road, there was once a jet-black horse that stared at me from behind a dark wooden fence.  He always seemed to be curious and I could see his warm breath in the cold morning air, streaming from his wide nostrils like smoke from the fire-breathing dragon in a child’s picture book.
     “Hello, Mr. Horse,” I said each year.  “Happy Christmas to you.”
     The horse, of course, always ignored my greetings and continued to stare at me in silence, as if trying to figure out why anyone would be walking alone on such a cold winter morning.
     Along about this time, the sun usually appears and the moon fades into the daylight, so I start  back toward where my walk began.
     During the good years, there is plenty of fluffy white snow to muffle sounds and enhance my morning walks.  On those days, the landscape glistens in the early morning sunlight like billions of tiny diamonds spread out as far as I can see.
     It is on these peaceful mornings that I most keenly sense the presence of God in my life and treasure the incredible gifts I have received during the many Christmas seasons I have enjoyed.
    Among them are the sun, the moon, the sky, and the Michigan landscape.  Also, the friends and loved ones that have passed through this rural neighborhood and enriched my life.  And all the living creatures that share the bountiful land with us.
     Topping the list, of course, is a tiny infant born a couple thousand years ago in a crowded Bethlehem stable, which is what Christmas is really all about.
     “How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given,” the old song goes. “So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his Heaven.”
     One year, as I ended my holiday walk and looked across the valley for the last time, I saw a small herd of white-tailed deer prancing through a stand of tall pine trees.  They were quite playful that morning and seemed to be celebrating Christmas in their own special way.
     Maybe they sensed the spirit of their creator moving across the land—much as I do each year as the Christmas dawn breaks.
     “Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,” I sing from childhood memory, “And praises sing to God the king and peace to men on earth.”
     Merry Christmas, my friends, and a splendid new year full of heavenly hope and love.

A note to readers

Mary Lou Sheppard, widow of longtime North Woods Call publisher Glen Sheppard, has reportedly been in good spirits over the holidays, despite her deteriorating health.  She underwent cancer treatment last summer, but in August was told that the treatment was not working and nothing more could be done.

In a recent e-mail to The Call, she said she was being cared for at home by her daughter, Jackie, and planned to stay there “until the end.”  “Some days are good and some are not,” she said, but there will be no more chemo or radiation treatments.

Low energy and “chemo brain” sometimes makes it difficult for her to answer e-mail and otherwise operate her computer—or even talk on the telephone—but she loves to hear from friends, loved ones and those she became acquainted with through The North Woods Call.   In fact, she has been delighted by several well-wishes and cards over the past few weeks, according to her daughter.

If you want to send a card or note yourself,the address is 165 Turkey Run Road , Charlevoix, Michigan  49720.

Early December issue

The early December issue of The North Woods Call will hit the presses later next week.

It's another block-buster edition, with stories about the ongoing fight over oil & gas leases in Barry County and the people waging the battle; a proposed strip mine in Michigan's eastern Upper Peninsula; "anti-fracking" legal strategies for community activists; and an interesting study of toxic chemicals at natural gas production sites.

Also, you'll get the usual news and information from the north woods; a review of Plastic Ocean, a troubling book by Capt. Charles Moore; and all our great columns, editorials and letters to get you thinking.

How about signing up for your subscription today, or at least ordering your North Woods Call t-shirts and caps!  See www.mynorthwoodscall.com.

A lifetime of campfires

Mike VanBuren column from the mid-November issue:

    A man’s life can be measured in the glow of campfires.  At least that’s the way it has been for me.
     I first gathered around the soothing flames while still a boy—during family campouts at Interlochen State Park—where we fellowshipped regularly with friends and relatives who made the trek north each July.
     Back home, the neighbor kids and I could often be found on summer nights building campfires in the hills behind our home, a rite-of passage that included sipping root beer from gallon jugs, exploring dark woodlots in the moonlight and sleeping soundly in canvas pup tents, or in bags rolled out under the stars.
     “The fire is the main comfort of the camp—whether in summer or winter—and is about as ample at one season as at another,” wrote Henry David Thoreau.  “It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and dryness.”
    That’s probably one reason our Native American brethren have traditionally gathered around fire circles to talk and listen to the wisdom of others.
     For much of my childhood and into my adult life, I have collected wisdom from campfire conversations.  For many years, it was an Independence Day ritual for family and friends to gather around a blazing social fire built in the gravel driveway—and later in the patio fire pit—of our rural home.
     We children would listen to the conversations of our parents and their friends, learning important life lessons passed down through stories and good-natured laughter.
     “Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people,” observed Garrison Keillor of Minnesota Public Radio’s A Prairie Home Companion.
     Gentleness and quiet wisdom seem to have always been hallmarks of the campfires that I sat around.  As I grew older, I carried those benefits with me.
     Among my best memories are the roaring campfires shared with friends and family in  various locations throughout northern and southern Michigan.
     Elsewhere, I have basked in their warmth and light in the national forests of Arizona, with young Dutch tourists on a cold September evening in Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park and in front of a crackling fireplace at a small log cabin in the ghost town of Tincup, Colorado.
     During my early college years, there were large group gatherings  in Allegan Forest and on the beaches of Lake Michigan.  And my good friend and ex-roommate from Central Michigan University still joins me for regular spring and fall excursions—including twice on the south shore of Beaver Island—that would be incomplete without campfire philosophy.
    Firelight was even an integral part of my courtship years and a delight at the wedding reception.  And my own kids were raised on campfires and smores during 20-plus years of August camping trips to the state park near our house.
   Many gatherings with my acoustic musician friends over the years have included singing to the accompaniment of guitars, banjos and mandolins in the flickering shadows of a friendly campfire.
     I treasure these memories and hope to make even more of them before my days are done.
     George Bernard Shaw said that “life is a flame that is always burning itself out, but it catches fire again every time a child is born.”
     It’s somehow comforting to know that—when the embers of my life are finally extinguished with a dash of cold water and a whiff of white smoke—another boy will come along and seek wisdom in the stories and laughter of a thousand campfires.