Letters

Letters 08-31-2015

Inalienable Rights This is a response to the “No More State Theatre” in your August 24th edition. I think I will not be the only response to this pathetic and narrow-minded letter that seems rather out of place in the northern Michigan that I know. To think we will not be getting your 25 cents for the movie you refused to see, but more importantly we will be without your “two cents” on your thoughts of a marriage at the State Theatre...

Enthusiastically Democratic Since I was one of the approximately 160 people present at when Senator Debbie Stabenow spoke on August 14 in Charlevoix, I was surprised to read in a letter to Northern Express that there was a “rather muted” response to Debbie’s announcement that she has endorsed Hillary Clinton for president...

Not Hurting I surely think the State Theatre will survive not having the homophobic presence of Colleen Smith and her family attend any matinees. I think “Ms.” Smith might also want to make sure that any medical personnel, bank staff, grocery store staff, waiters and/or waitress, etc. are not homosexual before accepting any service or product from them...

Stay Home I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read the letter of the extremely homophobic, “disgusted” writer. She now refuses to patronize the State Theatre because she evidently feels that its confines have been poisoned by the gay wedding ceremony held there...

Keep Away In response to Colleen Smith of Cadillac who refused to bring her family to the State Theatre because there was a gay wedding there: Keep your 25 cents and your family out of Traverse City...

Celebrating Moore And A Theatre I was 10 years old when I had the privilege to see my first film at the State Theatre. I will never forget that experience. The screen was almost the size of my bedroom I shared with my older sister. The bursting sounds made me believe I was part of the film...

Outdated Thinking This letter is in response to Colleen Smith. She made public her choice to no longer go to the State Theater due to the fact that “some homosexuals” got married there. I’m not outraged by her choice; we don’t need any more hateful, self-righteous bigots in our town. She can keep her 25 cents...

Mackinac Pipeline Must Be Shut Down Crude oil flowing through Enbridge’s 60-yearold pipeline beneath the Mackinac Straits and the largest collection of fresh water on the planet should be a serious concern for every resident of the USA and Canada. Enbridge has a very “accident” prone track record...

Your Rights To Colleen, who wrote about the State Theatre: Let me thank you for sharing your views; I think most of us are well in support of the first amendment, because as you know- it gives everyone the opportunity to express their opinions. I also wanted to thank Northern Express for not shutting down these types of letters right at the source but rather giving the community a platform for education...

No Role Model [Fascinating Person from last week’s issue] Jada quoted: “I want to be a role model for girls who are interested in being in the outdoors.” I enjoy being in the outdoors, but I don’t want to kill animals for trophy...

Home · Articles · News · Features · What the river dragged in
. . . .

What the river dragged in

Doug Stanton - August 9th, 2010
What the River Dragged In
By Doug Stanton
It’s strange having your own oil spill.
What we have, of course, is a blip compared to the one in the Gulf of
Mexico, which this week formally broke all records for offshore
spills. But after watching the gulf catastrophe unfold from afar, the
news that oil was gushing from a pipeline just three hours south of
here into a small creek that flows into the Kalamazoo River and,
potentially, into Lake Michigan, came as a surprise.
Until last week, I wasn’t aware that a pipeline even existed, though I
must have driven over or past it hundreds of times. The leak is now
under control, but a good storm could still blow some of the estimated
one million gallons of spilled oil into the lake, and maybe even north
along its sandy coast, past numerous resort towns and into the Grand
Traverse Bay, to a place called Clinch Park, where I’ve been swimming
most mornings from June to October since I was kid.
It’s hard enough to try to capture oil floating in an ocean. But oil
moving downstream in a swift river? Forget about it. As the
pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus said, you can’t step into the same
river twice.
But despite the danger to the lake, many people here, busy enjoying
their summer vacations, haven’t paid much attention to the spill.
After all, Lake Michigan has lived through worse. It may be near the
center of the continent, but it’s not immune to the outside world, as
we’ve learned over and over.
First there were the invasive Asian carp, swimming around the Chicago
River a mere six miles from the mouth of the lake. These voracious
eaters get excited by the sound of boat motors and can leap by the
hundreds into the air all at once, in some hellish version of a water
ballet. An oil spill seems almost benign in comparison.
We’ve also had to contend with an invasion of gobies - small, bug-eyed
fish you’re supposed to kill if you catch. They disrupt the food chain
that normally supports native lake trout, perch and bass. They entered
the lake in the ballast water of international shipping traffic, along
with zebra mussels, which filter micro-organisms - also food for
native fish - out of the water.
As a result of the zebra mussel infestation, the lake, several summers
ago, was often as clear as a Bahamian bay. When I swam, I could see 50
feet in any direction. This extra sunlight fed more algae at deeper
depths, which created algal blooms that floated up on the beach in
smelly heaps. Now that the mussels have died off, the lake has
returned to something like normal.
So for now, I swim. Winters are so long in northern Michigan, nearly
nine months of gray skies and deep snow, that summer comes as a fresh
burst. Amnesia sets in—you forget that winter will ever return.
Friends from other parts of the country descend. The days ripen
perfectly, the air no warmer or colder than your skin so that the
edges of your body seem to extend beyond you, up and down the
tree-lined streets.
Traverse City sits halfway between the North Pole and the Equator, and
our summer days are long. The light seems to take forever to vanish
from the sky and, when it does, it goes out like someone folding a
white sheet in the dark. A flare on the horizon. Then a rustle:
Goodnight.
I swim in the midst of bad news to stay sane. I crawl over the sand
bottom in six feet of water, which is cold and green, and nothing has
changed in my life - I’m a kid again. No zebra mussels, no carp, no
oil spill headed my way. No politicians, no bloggers. Every day I step
refreshed and clean from the water, and go up to the bookstore,
Horizon’s, and order a coffee and stand on the street in flip-flops in
the chill air, feeling the hot cup in my hand, the fine texture of its
paper, feeling as if I’ve just come awake from a dream.
And what I carry around in my head is this, the image of the water, of
looking around 20 feet in any direction, and beyond my periphery the
lake darkening to the color of light in a storm. Sometimes I see fish
slicing around my field of vision - silver missiles headed to deeper
water.
The work day is about to begin; traffic pours past on the four-lane
parkway. I wonder what the people driving by think of me, when I’m
swimming out there along the buoys; and in a time when there is too
much news to think about, I hope they think nothing at all.
When the oil spill in Michigan began, I heard about a memorial service
for Paul Miller, a 22-year-old Marine corporal from the nearby village
of Lake Ann, who was killed on July 19 in Afghanistan. Later in the
week, I stood in the funeral home, not far from the beach where I
swim, and stared at Corporal Miller’s flag-draped coffin.
I thought this: that the world’s troubles can be nearer to us than we
think, flowing in our direction, flowing toward home.
And while it’s true that we used to live in Lake Ann, and our son may
have played summer baseball with Corporal Miller years earlier, I
don’t remember meeting him. Maybe I passed him on the street, a tyke
headed over to the ice cream shop with his parents, where we were
standing in line, too, with our children, all of us oblivious to the
news to come, the depth and coldness of the water ahead.

This was reprinted with permission from the New York Times, which
published the essay last week. Doug Stanton is founder of the
National Writers Series, a year-round book festival, and author of
“Horse Soldiers: The Extraordinary Story of a Band of U.S. Soldiers
Who Rode to Victory in Afghanistan” and “In Harm’s Way: The Sinking
of the USS Indianapolis.”

 
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