To the Editor:

In the recent article about bullying in the school system, there are many points that are left out, namely parents’ views on the subject.

The article states that “160,000 students in the U.S. each day do not go to school for fear of being bullied.” What exactly is being done about this problem? There have been several incidents in the St. Ignace school system, just in the last year. The article also states that “Teachers are the first line of defense against bullying” and to “tell an adult supervisor.” When a child of a local parent tried to report the verbal abuse of another female student, she was essentially told to mind her own business.

What kind of message is this sending kids? Parents and police tell them to report abuse; teachers tell them, “No one likes a tattletale.” There was mention of parents telling their children to hit back. If a child has been bullied continuously and nothing has been done, what should the child do? Just sit there, afraid to report the abuse to teachers or parents, for fear the abuser will retaliate. What does happen when teachers are notified of abuse? Do they carefully watch to make sure the bully doesn’t attack again? Or do they just go back to grading papers and reviewing lesson plans?

It was mentioned that teachers are in-serviced on bullying. Are psychologists instructing teachers on the symptoms and long-term effects of bullying? Are teachers taught to be impartial judges, or do they see that the bully is a child of someone prominent in the community and say, “Oh, that’s so-and-so’s child, I’m not going to say anything because they may cause trouble for the school.”

It is also well known that in a community as small as St. Ignace, everyone knows everyone. Many of the teachers taught the parents, and many times the parent’s past behavior is taken into account. This is not fair to the child, regardless of whether they are the victim or the instigator of bullying.

The community realizes that the St. Ignace school system is under budget constraints and the teacher-to-student ratio is an obstacle, but one thing all St. Ignace parents agree on, as quoted by Mr. Everson, “Bullying can’t be tolerated in the school system.”

Tracey McCluskey

St. Ignace

A Poem for Chief Wawatam

To the Editor:

I recently wrote a poem about the Chief Wawatam that many of my friends and family have enjoyed reading. I thought that you and your readers may also enjoy it.

A little background on myself and my ties to the U.P.

My grandparents, Kenard and Ruby Clark, built a cottage at Pt. Aux Chenes in 1951 and I spent every summer of my life there until I was about 16. I was born in 1951 so I grew up with the car ferries and watched the Bridge being built. You can well imagine that I have made many trips into St. Ignace and rounding the bend coming down the hill into town, the first thing that one saw was the Chief . Since its demise, there has been a hole in the St. Ignace waterfront. I have always considered myself an honorary “Upper” and return as often as possible.

Douglas P. Emerson

Lansing

End of the Line

The tracks now lead to nowhere

They have long since seen their day

No more dreams to carry

They just end right at the bay

The Chief is gone forever

No more billowing clouds of smoke

Only an image in my mind

And these words that I once spoke

Down the hill and round the bend

It was a vision to behold

Four generations saw it there

So many stories have been told

It broke the ice in winter

Carried boxcars and a caboose

The bridge and all those trucks

Took away its use

The end of the line did come

The once proud Chief is gone

No more billowing smoke

Rising up into the dawn

or: The World Proves To Be a Small Place,

Linked by Judge Ned Fenlon’s Bridges

To the Editor:

In the spring of 1954, a distinguished looking gentleman came into my little Island restaurant and seated himself at one of the fine stools at the counter.

He ordered a bowl of soup and a cup of coffee. After he had eaten, being the waitress, too, I presented him with his bill: Soup 25 cents, coffee five cents, total 31 cents, one cent for the state.

He said, “Bob, how are things going?” I said, better now that the boats were running. He said, “That’s good! By the way, something came across my desk the other day. It seems the Hobart Company is suing you for $350 plus court costs for a 10-quart mixer. Would you care to tell me about it?”

In the spring of 1954, customers were few and far between on Astor Street, it being a short, dead-end street. I had plenty of time to tell my story.

“Well, sir,” I said, “last fall in September, long after the season was over, a salesman came to me wanting to sell me a mixer. He said he was supposed to deliver the mixer to Harry the Greek at the Astor Cafe on Main Street.

“Harry told him, ‘I ordered that mixer in May, I could have used it this summer, but your company sends it up here now? The season’s over, do you think I’m crazy? I’m going to Florida in two days. Go around the corner and sell it to Little Bob, he lives here.’

“The salesman came up around the corner and told me the story. He wanted to sell it to me because I was the only place open and if I didn’t buy it he would have to truck it back to Traverse City.

I told him flat out I didn’t have any money, but I sure would like to have one. I was doing everything by hand at the time.

“’Look,’ the salesman said, ‘give me $50 down and you can pay the balance next summer or make payments.’

“This idea didn’t sound too bad, and I could scrape up 50 bucks.

“I gave him the $50 and had him sign our agreement on the bill of lading. ‘Received of Little Bob fifty dollars, balance to be paid twenty-nine dollars a month beginning in June.’

“Having agreed upon the terms, the salesman went to the Arnold dock to get the machine.

“In the meantime, Harry the Greek came up and told me the story, which turned out to be the same.

“In November, the Hobart Company wrote me a nasty letter demanding payment in full.

“I explained they should look at their records, which would show the terms of purchase.

“The next letter from them informed me they wanted all of the money now, that the salesman had exceeded his authority and was no longer working for the company.

“On the very last trip of the Arnold Line about three in the afternoon, a young lawyer from St. Ignace wearing a long gray trench coat came into the restaurant (which had five stools and three tables.) With him was the Mackinac County Sheriff. They had come to pick up the mixer. I had peanut butter cookies in the mixer and told my little brother not to touch the mixer until I came back. I went home to check on Pat and the baby.

“The lawyer instructed Arvin they were catching the boat and wanted the cookie dough out of the machine. I came back just in time to see two kids from the dock carrying the mixer out.

“ It was the first time that year I had a full house (17 people).

“The sheriff, who was following the lawyer, leaned over to me and said, ‘Honest to God, Bob, I didn’t have anything to do with this. It was not my idea.’ I replied, ‘I know!’”

The truth was, I didn’t even know who the sheriff was. I found out later it was Dody Scheaffer.

I told the man that even after the lawyer had picked up the machine, they continued to write nasty letters to me demanding payment for the machine.

The man listened to my tale of woe and then he said to me, “Bob, I’m going to help you this time, but be more careful of these guys, as I may not be able to help you the next time.” I thought if he was willing to help me, the least I could do is treat him to a bowl of soup, but he insisted on paying.

At the time I had no idea who he was. I later found out his name, Judge Ned Fenlon. I had begun to think there was little or any justice in the land. He re-affirmed my faith in the system. I hope he forgives me for making it public 50 years later. I did not ask him if he was Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, or Buddhist, but I was very grateful for his kindness to me when I needed some.

I read in The St. Ignace News October issue and again just today [the April 28 issue] that Judge Edward Fenlon had participated in commissions overseeing or bringing about the construction of the Mackinac Bridge and the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron, Michigan.

In August of 1945 I was in General MacArthur’s Headquarters Company, 8th Army, in Hokohama, Japan.

Early on I decided I wanted to see what was left of the city of Hiroshima. I traveled east and west, north and south, as far as I could go. In fact, I believe I am the only American to walk the main street of Hiroshima, or what was left of it, and quite by accident, on August 27, 1945.

By the following spring, I was able to converse to some degree in Japanese, as I had about 20 Japanese men working under my supervision. The Japanese are patient people.

One day in early spring, I came upon an older Japanese gentleman working in the little garden beside his house.

I thought I would practice my Japanese on him. I leaned over and said, “Kombowa O-Bason.”

He rose and turned toward me, “Oh,” he said, “hello, Joe.”

I was really surprised. I said, “You speak English?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, “all my life! What state are you from, Joe?”

I said, “Michigan.”

He replied, “I know Michigan, I spent three years there.” Then he asked me in very, very good English, “Do you know where the Blue Water Bridge is, that runs from Port Huron to Sarnia, Ontario?”

“Yes,” I lied. I couldn’t tell this man 5,000 miles away that I didn’t know my own state.

He continued, “I was an engineer on the Blue Water Bridge. Michigan is a beautiful state. I came home just before the war because my family was here. Thank God the war is over!”

I let him talk; he wouldn’t let me leave. I was ashamed to think I had to lie and let him think I knew where the Blue Water Bridge was. I wondered if he could see the lie on my face.

Before I left, he asked that if I was ever in the area if I would say hello to his bridge for him? I promised I would.

Four years later during the Korean War, I made several trips across the Blue Water Bridge with a salute and a hello for him.

It is possible Judge Fenlon met this gentleman.

Bob Hughey

St. Ignace