By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
I shook hands with President Clinton once, met movie and TV stars when I worked in Los Angeles, and have interviewed celebrities and politicians alike.
But last Friday, I felt a little out of my league.
Through a good friend, I was able to squeak my way into the top booth at Centre Ice during the second day of Red Wings training camp in Traverse City. In that lone suite the arena boasts, I stood with some of professional hockey’s elite.
On my left was Ken Holland, the Red Wings general manager, and arguably one of the best GM’s in professional sports. To my direct right, stood Red Berenson, former Stanley Cup winning professional hockey player, professional hockey coach of the year, and current coach for the University of Michigan hockey team, who’s brought his team to the NCAA tournament in each of his last 17 seasons.
To my right was Bob McNamara, former Notre Dame goaltender, and championship-winning general manager of Detroit’s AHL affiliate Grand Rapids Griffins. Next to him was Mike Babcock, Detroit’s head coach — enough said. In front of me was Jimmy Paek, assistant coach for the Griffs, the first Korean to play in the NHL and have his name engraved on the Stanley Cup, and who also holds the honor of listing both Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky as teammates. The rest of the group was made up of scouts and other notable Wings’ staff.
The true kicker was this; as I made my way from the inner suite — where a breakfast of eggs, ham, and pancakes was lovingly cooked up for guests to enjoy — to the outside rink viewing area, a quiet, unassuming man with a baseball cap, held the door open for me. He’d been looking out the window of the suite at the veteran players and prospects as they ran their drills below.
When he turned away from looking out of the window, only then did I realize who he was. “Played much golf lately, Mr. Howe?” asked my friend. “No, my shoulder’s been bothering me,” he said.
As we passed by, I said “hello, Mr. Howe,” and he held the door for me. GORDIE HOWE held the door for ME.
As I occassionally glanced at the hockey legend, separated from me by only a thin pane of glass, I wondered what he was thinking as he watched Holmstrom, Datsyuk, Lebda, Chelios, Draper, Zetterberg, and the others glide effortlessly on the ice, putting perfect passes on the tape, and shooting the puck for the corners along with the rookies and prospects who were desperately trying to make the last few spots on this year’s roster.
Did he wax nostalgic? Did he wonder how they would have stacked up in his day? Was he imagining what it would be like for him to play the game today, with shoot-outs, trapezoids, and collective bargaining agreements?
Oh, how I wanted to ask him these questions — but my sensibilities took control of me, and I left him alone. Just being able to say my hushed “hello” was fine with me.
I want to emphatically thank my friend, who allowed me a tiny glimpse at the inner workings of the Red Wings’ front office, but I won’t mention his name — so he isn’t inundated with requests by other die-hard hockey fans.
Because, last year when I went to training camp, or Hockey Town North as they call it, I went on a press pass. I had a good time, got to talk with staff and players, and felt that I had a fine experience.
But it in no way compared to being in the booth with the company I had found myself in on Friday.
Even though I was a guest of the management staff that day, I still went down to the main level to pick up my press pass, in case I needed it later. It was then that I realized how well-off I had it.
While I was down there, some self-important twenty-something with a “press relations” badge scoffed at me when I asked where the press kits are. “I don’t know,” he told me.
I walked around and looked for someone else who might know, and they directed me back to “Mr. P.R.” again, so I went back and this time asked him for my press credentials.
He said, “oh, I didn’t know that’s what you were looking for.”
Why the hell did he think I was asking for a press kit, then?
At that point, Mr. P.R. started to grill me on sports reporting etiquette like I had just fallen off the turnip truck. “You know that you can’t go certain places right?”
“Yeah, I’ve been here before, I think I can handle it,” I said.
“And you can’t just walk into meetings.”
I started to imagine my hands tightening around Mr. P.R.’s neck.
“I think I can handle it,” I told him as I yanked my media credential out of his hand. Then I quickly tucked it into my pocket so nobody could see, walked out of the door, and up the hill to the back of the building, where I slipped in through the emergency exit and back to the suite with Ken, Mike, Red, Bob, Jimmy and Gordie.
As I looked out over the sheet of ice where the Wings were running drills, I saw all the other media guys milling around with their tape recorders, reporter’s tablets, and their video and digital cameras. All I could think was how that could have been me — and I was truly thankful once again for the opportunity, and the access, I had been given.
For a hockey fan, and as a journalist, it was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I relished every minute of it as I listened, speaking very little, and merely took it all in. I was a fly on the wall, enjoying every nuance of the discussions between the coaches, management, and other staff about the players and prospects, golf, food, fly-fishing — but mostly pure hockey talk — that went on in that inner-sanctum.
When it was over, it all seemed like a dream. A very good dream. One that I will re-visit again and again.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Monday, September 17, 2007
Making the team (MNA Sept. 07)
An interview with Red Wings General Manager Ken Holland
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
There are two rituals each September for the Detroit Red Wings — training camp in Traverse City, and golf.
Golf has become one of the preferred off-season activities for many hockey players, and the boys who wear the winged wheel, along with management and staff for the team, are no different.
I had the opportunity to talk with Red Wings General Manager Ken Holland Wednesday at Arcadia Bluffs over a bowl of soup and a Sprite while he waited for his tee time, and he let me in on why golf and hockey have a connection, and why he and other Red Wings players and staff make the trip down to Manistee County.
“I love golf, and Arcadia Bluffs is as good a golf experience as anyone can have,” said Holland. “Between the setting of the golf course on the lake, and the people, that’s why we come here. We know (course manager) Bill Shriver, and all the people, all the staff here, are incredible hosts and hostesses and treat us beyond incredible.
Holland enters his 11th season as general manager and his 25th year with the Red Wings’ organization. He is arguably the most successful general manager in all of professional sports over the last ten years. He was at Arcadia Bluffs enjoyed a day off between the prospect camp which ended Tuesday, and the general camp, which begins today.
Holland explained why players are drawn from the ice to the links. “The motion of shooting the puck is a similar motion, and professional athletes are competitors, that’s how they get where they are. You compete with yourself, you compete with your opponent, you compete with the golf course, so there’s a lot of competitive aspects to golf that hockey players like.
“It’s also an opportunity to build relationships,” said Holland. “You spend four hours on the course. Whether it’s just a friendship, or sometimes you come out and it’s a working environment.”
According to Holland, about half to three quarters of the Wings’ roster play golf, depending on who is currently on the team. And some of them apparently play as well on turf as they do on the ice.
“Who would be the best really depends on the year,” Holland said. “On the current team, we have a lot of guys who are probably nine, ten, eleven handicaps — Osgood, Draper. Brett Hull was a plus one. Ray Whitney was a scratch golfer. Manny Legace was a one or a two handicap. There’s been some good players.
And of course, I couldn’t sit down with the Wings’ GM without asking him about his expectations for training camp, which I’m sure is on his mind as he plays his rounds of golf in Arcadia each September.
“Our record in the prospect (games) was one win and three losses,” he said. “You like to win, but the most important thing at the prospect tournament is to evaluate, and we had four real good games to evaluate. We lost 3-2 to Atlanta, 3-2 to the Rangers, we lost 5-3 at the end, basically 4-3 to St. Louis, and we beat Tampa Bay 3-1. So, all the games were close and competitive.”
Training camp is about looking for new talent, and this year is no different, said Holland. “We were very happy with some of our young defensemen, Jonathan Ericsson played really well, and Jakub Kindl. I think it was a positive first week, with some nice surprises.”
Main camp focuses more on some of the veteran players, so Holland is really looking for a few of the guys to step up and help fill some of the gaps left from the exit of a few big names after last season. “We pretty well know 20 guys on our team,” Holland said. “We know 12 NHL forwards, we know 6 NHL defensemen, we know our two goalies. With Robert Lang and Todd Bertuzzi and Kyle Calder gone, there’s some opportunities for our players who are competing for ice time — what’s their role? Are they going to be a top-six forward, are they going to be in the second power play?
“There’s some opportunities. We’re going to carry 22 players, and we’re anxious to see, how close is Jimmy Howard in goal? How close are some of our young defensemen? Like Jonathan Ericsson, Jakub Kindl, Derek Meech, Kyle Quincey.
“We’re bringing in some veteran defensemen on tryouts. Brent Sopel played in the NHL a number of years, Jassen Cullimore, Brad Ference. One of those guys is probably going to make our team on defense.”
Up front, Holland said they’ll look at Igor Grigorenko of Russia, Matt Ellis, from their Grand Rapids affiliate team, the Griffins, and Aaron Downey from Montreal. “They’re going to be fighting for the last forward spot,” he said.
The rest of camp is about finding some new talent, and cultivating some old, according to Holland. “Everybody knows the Datsyuks, and Zetterbergs. We know those guys are going to be on the team, we know what they can do.” A big question is how the existing players will size up this season, he said. “Can Val Fillipula take a step forward this year? Can Jiri Hudler take a step forward this year? We need some of the younger players to step forward.”
He also said that changes in the collective bargaining agreement have changed the way they put their team together. “You used to go out and have a good team, and add to your team. That doesn’t happen anymore. If you’ve got a good team, you’re hoping just to hang onto it,” said Holland.
“We had a good year, we lost some of our players. Now we need internally for some people to step up, and that’s what we’re looking for. Can Mikael Samuelsson, Dan Cleary, Johan Franzen, can they build off the great playoffs they had for us last year and take a step forward in their career? The opportunity’s there for somebody.”
Wing’s front office staff will spend the next week trying to answer many of these questions — and it won’t be easy. It never is. But Holland actually hopes that it’s a hard decision, because that means he’ll have a lot of talent to pick from.
“There’s two ways to look at a hard decision: one, nobody steps up and we don’t know what to do, and two, we have a lot of people playing well, and it’s a hard decision because everybody’s playing well. Hopefully it’s the latter.”
And with that, I let the Red Wing’s front office mastermind finish eating his chicken soup so that he could make his tee time.
There are nine exhibition games in the general training portion of camp, and Holland said that all nine of them will be used to evaluate who will be rostered for the 2007-2008 season. For some players who already have cemented their spot on the team, it’ll be a good way to work out the kinks and rustiness that the off-season layoff brings. For others, it’ll be the chance to prove themselves worthy of playing for one of the best franchises in the game.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Life is the moments ‘in-between’ (MNA Sept. 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
In this drive-through, online, wireless, digital, surround sound, super-sized, high speed, direct billed, no-interest, instant messenger, instant gratification lifestyle we’ve developed, it’s easy to fast forward through life, and to gauge ourselves strictly by our accomplishments.
But life — real life — is lived in the day to day, nine to five existence.
It’s lived in the little moments in-between, the footnotes to greater things. Gratification doesn’t come from punching the clock on another day, week, or month. It comes in unique moments, like seeing your newborn child’s face for the first time, a smile from your wife after the pain of labor has subsided, and the look on people’s faces when they renew their relationship with the miracle of life.
These little moments, or side excursions, make life livable – as long as we remember to live in those moments, those golden instances that fade too quickly if we let them.
How easy is it to forget what’s important? Family, friends, having a little fun once in a while…
It’s pretty damn easy.
Until something comes along to remind us why we enjoy living. Why we try. Why we find the reason to smile, or laugh, or enjoy ourselves.
And we once again renew our faith in the value of life, re-evaluate what’s important, and try to set out once again to live like we once promised ourselves we would.
I’ve experienced moments like this several times. Most notably on Wednesday, March 24, at 10:30 a.m., Friday, April 13, at 3:15 a.m., Thursday, Sept. 1 at a time that is now unremembered. On each of those days, a miracle occurred. A miracle that occurs every day in every corner of the world – hell, in every corner of the universe for all we know.
On each one of those days, I met my children for the first time. Two through the miracle of birth, and one through the miracle of sacrifice that comes from adoption. Those moments are about new life, the continuation of life, the perseverance of humankind.
They’re a lot bigger — and a whole lot heavier — in the scheme of things, than worrying about the little things, like a promotion at work, bills, or rush hour traffic.
For these children, five months, three years, and eight years old, the whole world lies ahead. Anything can happen. They can live to do anything they want to do. The possibilities are endless.
You can’t put a price on that.
It’s easy to take these life changing moments for granted, but we do ourselves a great injustice if we do. Those who are truly happy, are the ones who seize the moment, seize the feeling, and revel in it. This sounds corny, and cliché, and that’s why we refuse to realize it.
Because too often in life, we fast forward through the new beginnings, the fresh starts, the arcs in the story line.
We rush through the little moments to get to the next great part of our existence, but the living of the little moments suffers, and is forgotten, or the significance of these little slices of real life are lost.
When I was eight, I only wanted to be 10 — so I’d be in the double digits. When I was a teenager, I just wanted to be 16 so I could drive a car. Then I counted down the days until I was able to go to college, then marked the calendar until graduation, getting married, having kids, buying a house…until there was no living in the now, just marking time until the next level was achieved.
At every step, I’ve been working to make it to the next step, because every next step, I thought, would finally make me the happiest. All the while, I should have realized that I was already happy, and I should have appreciated what I already had.
Life isn’t in the next step. It isn’t necessarily what’s around the corner. Life has to be lived in the here and now, in the daily grind, in the evening meal, the little league game, helping the kids with homework, sharing a movie with a spouse, even cleaning the house or doing yard work.
These little moments “in between” are what we’ll wish for years from now, and what we’ll miss when it’s too late. Not the promotions, the monetary windfalls, the toys and houses we buy, or the prizes we win as we travel along in this plane of existence.
Because the joy in life is the new birth, the laugh shared with children, the shared experience with a best friend, a birthday party, a hockey game, or a half hour in the park throwing the frisbee to the dog.
And once these moments are gone, these little “life vignettes,” they can’t be recaptured with videotape, film, or on a digital hard drive.
They’re gone before you know it.
That’s why we have to live for today, and recognize what’s important.
It’s the journey, not the destination that counts.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
In this drive-through, online, wireless, digital, surround sound, super-sized, high speed, direct billed, no-interest, instant messenger, instant gratification lifestyle we’ve developed, it’s easy to fast forward through life, and to gauge ourselves strictly by our accomplishments.
But life — real life — is lived in the day to day, nine to five existence.
It’s lived in the little moments in-between, the footnotes to greater things. Gratification doesn’t come from punching the clock on another day, week, or month. It comes in unique moments, like seeing your newborn child’s face for the first time, a smile from your wife after the pain of labor has subsided, and the look on people’s faces when they renew their relationship with the miracle of life.
These little moments, or side excursions, make life livable – as long as we remember to live in those moments, those golden instances that fade too quickly if we let them.
How easy is it to forget what’s important? Family, friends, having a little fun once in a while…
It’s pretty damn easy.
Until something comes along to remind us why we enjoy living. Why we try. Why we find the reason to smile, or laugh, or enjoy ourselves.
And we once again renew our faith in the value of life, re-evaluate what’s important, and try to set out once again to live like we once promised ourselves we would.
I’ve experienced moments like this several times. Most notably on Wednesday, March 24, at 10:30 a.m., Friday, April 13, at 3:15 a.m., Thursday, Sept. 1 at a time that is now unremembered. On each of those days, a miracle occurred. A miracle that occurs every day in every corner of the world – hell, in every corner of the universe for all we know.
On each one of those days, I met my children for the first time. Two through the miracle of birth, and one through the miracle of sacrifice that comes from adoption. Those moments are about new life, the continuation of life, the perseverance of humankind.
They’re a lot bigger — and a whole lot heavier — in the scheme of things, than worrying about the little things, like a promotion at work, bills, or rush hour traffic.
For these children, five months, three years, and eight years old, the whole world lies ahead. Anything can happen. They can live to do anything they want to do. The possibilities are endless.
You can’t put a price on that.
It’s easy to take these life changing moments for granted, but we do ourselves a great injustice if we do. Those who are truly happy, are the ones who seize the moment, seize the feeling, and revel in it. This sounds corny, and cliché, and that’s why we refuse to realize it.
Because too often in life, we fast forward through the new beginnings, the fresh starts, the arcs in the story line.
We rush through the little moments to get to the next great part of our existence, but the living of the little moments suffers, and is forgotten, or the significance of these little slices of real life are lost.
When I was eight, I only wanted to be 10 — so I’d be in the double digits. When I was a teenager, I just wanted to be 16 so I could drive a car. Then I counted down the days until I was able to go to college, then marked the calendar until graduation, getting married, having kids, buying a house…until there was no living in the now, just marking time until the next level was achieved.
At every step, I’ve been working to make it to the next step, because every next step, I thought, would finally make me the happiest. All the while, I should have realized that I was already happy, and I should have appreciated what I already had.
Life isn’t in the next step. It isn’t necessarily what’s around the corner. Life has to be lived in the here and now, in the daily grind, in the evening meal, the little league game, helping the kids with homework, sharing a movie with a spouse, even cleaning the house or doing yard work.
These little moments “in between” are what we’ll wish for years from now, and what we’ll miss when it’s too late. Not the promotions, the monetary windfalls, the toys and houses we buy, or the prizes we win as we travel along in this plane of existence.
Because the joy in life is the new birth, the laugh shared with children, the shared experience with a best friend, a birthday party, a hockey game, or a half hour in the park throwing the frisbee to the dog.
And once these moments are gone, these little “life vignettes,” they can’t be recaptured with videotape, film, or on a digital hard drive.
They’re gone before you know it.
That’s why we have to live for today, and recognize what’s important.
It’s the journey, not the destination that counts.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
'The Gambler' comes to town (MNA Aug. 07)
Little River opens new entertainment venue
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
MANISTEE — In a starched white shirt — cuffs unbuttoned — and jeans, he strode onto the stage to cheers and applause from a grateful sold-out crowd Saturday night at Little River Casino Resort. Many call him “The Gambler,” but it was no gamble when the resort decided to make Kenny Rogers the first act to grace the stage in their brand new state-of-the-art 1,700 seat entertainment venue.
It also wasn’t a gamble to invest in the newest expansion project for the resort, if Saturday’s attendance was any indication. The parking lot was full, and cars leaked onto the manicured lawns of the casino property. Also alive with the buzz of the evening were the busy gambling floor, hotel, and restaurant venues.
With increased competition from a newly remodeled casino to the north in Petoskey, the Odawa, and another brand new casino to the south in New Buffalo, Four Winds, Little River has stepped it up another notch in the type of all-around entertainment they can offer with their own newest construction project.
“It’s absolutely beautiful, it’s exceeded our expectations,” said Larry Romanelli, the Little River Band of Ottawa Indians’ Ogema, who was in attendance at the concert, along with members of the tribal council.
Little River has always had a reputation for customer service, and the Ogema said that this was part of the success of the continually growing property for the past eight years.
“What we want to do is keep our friendly atmosphere, our hospitality,” he said. Romanelli also spoke of the way growth at the casino ties into the rest of the area. “We want to grow along with the community, and I think we’re going to do that with this (latest expansion).”
Some at the casino and tribal government level may have had some reservations about putting more money into the newest phase of construction at the casino, but some minds have been changed now that the project is completed, and they can actually see the results.
“There’s always those questions in the beginning, whether we should do this or should not,” said Romanelli. “I think obviously, it was the right thing to do, not just for tribal members and the casino, but also for the community.
Offering more than just a gaming floor is part of the strategy to compete in what is now becoming a more saturated casino market in the state of Michigan. “We knew there was competition coming,” said Romanelli. According to the directors of the casino, that’s why the winter garden, with a flowing river and real plants and trees was also added, in addition to the performance stage. “We not only have that now, we have this expanded place for people to enjoy themselves. It’s not just the gambling, it’s the atmosphere. It’s the whole ambiance — trying to keep people happy, in an enjoyable place — and I think we’ve accomplished all of that.”
Feedback for the inaugural show from the public was good, according to Little River Casino Resort Marketing Director, Tiana Burgeson, who was pleased with how the evening turned out. “Everybody loved the new facility,” she said. “We sold several tickets afterwards for the upcoming Jo Dee Messina and Clint Black concerts, and we had a lot positive comments — I couldn’t have asked for a better opening night.”
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
The ‘flying mechanic’ (MNA Aug. 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
“Many times I feel that the Almighty had his hand around my shoulder, or I wouldn’t be here,” says Carl Carlstrom, who served as a flight engineer aboard a B-17(G) Flying Fortress over the skies of Europe during the second world war.
As an enlistee in the Army Air Corps at the age of 19 in 1942, Carlstrom said “that’s what I wanted — I wanted to fly.”
He had no idea that this choice would eventually find him 30,000 feet in the air, amid 1,000 pound bombs — one of them “hot” or armed — while he manually cranked open the airship’s malfunctioning bomb bay doors.
“I had gone back through the ship to check everything over, and went back through the bomb bay. There was an air leak in the bomb bay, and one of the propellors (on the bomb) had backed itself off. I immediately got back to the flight deck and called the pilot and bombardier and said, ‘we’ve got a hot one aboard.’ If nobody touches it, everything’s okay, if anyone touches that fuse, it’s bye-bye blackbird,” said Carlstrom.
“We hit the IP, that’s the initial point where you begin your bomb run, and the bombardier called and said, ‘bomb bay doors coming open.’ I said bomb bay? They’re not opening. He said, ‘the indicators say they’re open.’ I told him, ‘I don’t give a so-and-so what the indicator says, they’re not opening. I’ll have to get out and crank ‘em open.’”
So, Carlstrom stood, one foot on either side of the slowly opening bomb bay doors, the bombs behind him, a hot fuse less than two feet from his back, while he cranked open the doors by hand — with nothing but clouds between him and the ground, 30,000 feet below.
“All I could think is that if the ship lunges and I come back and hit that fuse, we’re all history.”
Carlstrom, nicknamed “Swede” by his fellow crewmembers, performed this death defying feat without a parachute — he was too big to fit into the cramped space while wearing one — and with a thick carpet of enemy flak blanketing the skies around him. He described what the flak was like at times.
“Going over Vienna, that was one of the toughest targets in Europe, Vienna had 1,100 and some odd 88’s settin’ there, and they could bring them all to bear at one time. They put up a wall of flak that looked like you could walk on it. You’d see that formation in front of you going into that wall of flak and you’d know that’s where you’re going — because you gotta get through there to drop those eggs.”
The flak wasn’t the only problem to contend with as Carlstrom labored with the malfunctioning bomb doors.
“So the bombardier called ‘bombs away’ and he said ‘bomb bay doors coming closed.’ I looked back and said, ‘they’re not coming closed.’ So, I got back out there and started cranking them shut, and I felt something hit my arm. I paid no attention and kept cranking, and something else hit me again. I turned and looked back and the radio operator was throwing spent 50 caliber brass at me and motioning for me to get back.”
While Carlstrom labored to close the doors, he had expelled hot breath from the discharge port of his oxygen mask. Mixed with the cold, thin air at bombing altitude, a beard of hoar frost had formed on Carlstrom from his chin to his waist. “The radio operator was afraid I was freezing up. The average temperature at that altitude is 70-80 degrees below zero,” explained Carlstrom.
Once the doors were cranked shut, and he returned to his station on the flight deck, the crew of the B-17 still wasn’t in the clear. “I looked, and four of the (oxygen) indicators had dropped to zero. I called the pilot and said, ‘Hirsch, you and I are the only two that have got oxygen, we just took a hit in the junction box.”
The crew now concentrated on getting back home alive and in one piece.
“Once the bomb run was over, the pilot would say, ‘we’re done working for Uncle Sam, now we’re working for ourselves.’ So he dropped down to 17,000, where you can live a long time without any oxygen. We had no more than leveled off, than our gunner called, ‘two unidentified fighters at nine o’clock.’”
Besides being briefed that there would be heavy flak on the mission, his air group — the 15th Air Force, 301st Bomb Group, 352nd Bomb Squadron — had been told there would be heavy fighter opposition. “I picked up the glasses off the flight deck and looked out, and said, ‘well fellas, its a couple of P-51’s, but keep your eyes on ‘em.’
Carlstrom knew that the Germans had taken Allied planes which had been forced down, rebuilt them, and used them to sneak into formations and shoot down bombers before. To their relief, this time, the P-51’s were friendlies who had heard about the B-17’s problems and came to escort her home.
“It’s a wonderful feeling when those ‘little friends’ come out to help you,” said Carlstrom.
He was recommended for the distinguished flying cross (DFC) for his efforts that day.
“You’re a flying mechanic, you do what maintenance you can in flight,” said Carlstrom. “You’re responsible for the welfare of that airplane.”
More than 60 years later, Carlstrom can still tell you how many gallons of fuel or oil the old girl took, how many RPM’s (revolutions per minute) the props would spin up to on take-off and in flight, and what the mercury readings, or atmospheric pressure was on the aircraft during different portions of the flight. “When you’ve done something 1,000 times, you remember it,” he says.
Some of the targets his group bombed were in Vienna, as well as other Austrian targets, and some in Hungary, Checkoslavakia, Yugoslavia, northern Italy, and southern France. Over the course of 16 official missions aboard the “Miss Enid” and other B-17’s, the flight engineer worked to hold his aircraft together while bombing targets such as bridges, airfields, aircraft factories, ball bearing factories, and refineries.
Out of all those missions, living in tents and taking off from pre-fab airstrips in Foggia, Italy, Carlstrom only had an ominous feeling about one.
“I got up in the morning with the feeling I didn’t want to fly, there was something wrong,” he says. “It’s the only time it ever happened. We were going to hit a railroad bridge in Austria, and we got up a little over 10,000 feet, and one by one, three of our turbos — thats our superchargers — started to malfunction, so we had three engines that weren’t puttin’ out what they should.”
They fell out of formation in an attempt to jettison their bombs in the snow-covered Alps, but decided to keep their payload and continue, since they were only 45 minutes away from their bombing run.
“By then we were a mile behind the formation,” Carlstrom says. ”And we had been briefed on heavy fighters and flak. On that mission we didn’t have a bombardier, we had a togglier aboard. And that togglier was good. He laid five of ‘em right right down the length of that bridge — five 1,000 pounders.”
“We were also camera ship that day, so we got a good picture of where those bombs hit.” Coming in alone, and after the rest of the formation had already made their bomb run, Carlstrom’s plane didn’t have the protection of the rest of the air group or any fighter escort.
“The rest of the formation got the devil shot out of them, and we never saw one puff of flak, because as soon as the formation was gone, the gunners packed up and went home. We were so far behind, we had no opposition. They hit it — but they didn’t get the hits that we did.”
“Being camera ship, just before we hit the Adriatic Sea, we broke formation and started dogging it for home to get those films in. A couple of 38’s (P-38’s) came in to follow us in. They had been hearing about our problems. All of the sudden they rolled, and I could see a freight train. They strafed that train, and here and there another car would blow up. When they got to the engine, it was one big puff of steam — and that’s all she wrote. Twenty minutes later they were sitting back up on our wing, giving us the sign — scratch one freight train.”
Years later, someone asked Carlstrom, “weren’t you worried?”
“Don’t pay to worry,” said Carlstrom. “Either they’re gonna get you or they’re not. We had ships come back with their whole vertical stabilizer shot away, so they had no rudder and the pilot was steering with his engines. They were a rough airplane — they took an awful lot of punishment. We came back one day with 200 and some odd holes in one ship, and not a man scratched.”
His survival against unfavorable odds is why Carlstrom, now 85-years-old, feels he had the arm of the Almighty around his shoulder, and why he is so modest about his time in the service.
“Some say we’re heroes, but I say ‘no.’ We were just a bunch of highly trained kids trying to get a job done and trying to stay alive doing it.”
Thursday, August 09, 2007
‘Just great movies’-an interview with Michael Moore (MNA Aug. 07)
Moore’s northern Michigan film festival continues to grow
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
MANISTEE — Regardless of how you feel about filmmaker Michael Moore, you cannot doubt his passion for film. “I’m concerned about film literacy in this country,” he told the audience Thursday at opening of one of the panels at the Traverse City Film Festival. “That’s why we’re here. To help save one of America’s few indigenous art forms — the cinema.”
And there’s a large following of people who must agree with the documentary filmmaker. Over 70,000 festivalgoers attended the Fest in 2006, and even more are projected for this year’s final tally. “We’ve almost doubled what we did our first year, and we’re only in our second day,” he said on Thursday. The festival ends on Sunday.
Also increasing this year, in order to keep up with the demand, is the number of screens, number of screenings, and types of movies.
“We’ve added a new venue, the Lars Hockstad auditorium,” said Moore. “And we’ve added midnight screenings, Friday and Saturday horror movies. And we have our first full-length animated feature we’re showing here, a Japanese animated film. We’ve got a number of new things like that this year.”
The other venues for the festival are the open space outdoor cinema, the historic State Theatre, the City Opera House, and the Old Town Playhouse.
The lineup of films and panels brought to northern Michigan this time around held something for any flavor of filmophile. Among the highlights are screening of children’s and Native American films, a selection of cult-favorite horror films playing at special midnight showings, a select screening of classic films, including a 40th anniversary celebration of “The Graduate,” and a screening of “The Bridge on the River Kwai,” in honor of its 50th anniversary. There is also the regular diet of independent films, documentaries, and other gems folks might have missed which the festival is showing to audiences who will surely appreciate them.
Guests of the festival include Doug Stanton, whose novel “In Harms Way,” is under development at Warner brothers, festival board director and also director of the film “Hotel Rwanda,” Terry George, Larry Charles, who worked on “Seinfeld,” “Mad About You,” “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” and “Entourage, as well as last year’s most talked about film, “Borat,” director of the Michigan Film Office, Janet Lockwood, Moore’s wife and producer, Kathleen Glynn, Emmy award winning journalist John Laurence, Academy Award nominated director/producer Brett Morgen, film critics Chris Borelli and Tom Long of the Toledo Blade and Detroit News, independent film actress Gretchen Mol, and Oscar winning director/best supporting actress nominee, Christine Lahti, who the festival awarded this year’s Michigan Filmmaker Award.
Panel discussions with guests included talks on humor in dark times, a panel of film critics, discussions of the documentary form, a special panel on Moore’s film “Sicko,” and one entitled “Will it Play in Traverse City?”
The success of the festival and its growth seem to point to an answer of “yes” on that last question. The Traverse City Film Festival believes that people love to go to the movies, but the movies these days don’t seem to love the people, according to their mission statement. In addition to movies, Moore seems to love the people, too.
He sits in on the panels, and screenings, and asks his own questions. When people stop him on the street or talk to him after a panel discussion, he doesn’t have the Hollywood aloofness that so many other stars are afflicted with. He dresses like a regular guy, talks to you like a regular guy, and if you were from another planet and hadn’t ever heard of Moore, you would have no idea upon meeting him that he has single-handedly brought the form of documentary film into the mainstream, and is worth millions of dollars.
And more importantly over the past three years, he has brought what is becoming a growing film festival to his home state of Michigan, and included us among the Sundance, Telluride, and Cannes crowd — albeit on a slightly smaller scale.
But this smaller scale doesn’t detract from the importance of the film festival to northern Michigan. Their mission is just as important as that of any other festival, to show great movies that both entertain and enlighten the audience; movies that seek to enrich the human spirit and the art of filmmaking — not the bottom line of the studios which produce them.
Places like Traverse City, and Manistee for that matter, with neighborhood movie theaters, made going to the movies the most popular form of entertainment in the world — long before the age of the multiplex. But according to Moore, and the other architects of the TC Film Fest, something of that magic has been lost, and they are seeking to reclaim it.
That’s why they created the festival, and have the goal of giving the public “just great movies” for about a week every year in August.
And there’s no sign of the festival slowing down any time soon. “I think we may add a day or two next year,” said Moore. “Just to accomodate all the people who want to see movies. And I think we’ll have more and more filmmakers wanting to come here — from all over, and the midwest.”
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Passing down the finer points of golf (MNA Aug 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
Recently, my son was introduced to the most frustrating sport on the face of the earth — golf. I hesitated to let him learn, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to submit him to the pain and agony — mixed with periodic moments of glee — that only golf can bring.
But, my son is a true sports-lover, and an avid athlete, so I relented and let him go to golf camp. Unfortunately for him, he enjoyed the camp, and the sport.
So, after his two weeks of lessons, I took him to Manistee National to golf what they call the “short set.” Marked by gold stakes at around 150-220 yards, or shorter for the par 3’s, this is a fantastic way for young golfers to get acquainted with the game, without getting frustrated about shot distance.
But of course, there was some frustration on Reidar’s part, as he whiffed a few times, took a few big divots, or overshot the greens on his chip shots — just like the big boys do. Better that he start to experience the exasperating aspects of the sport early, so he knows what’s in for him, I figured.
The short set, while a good teaching tool, is also a stellar way for dads to lower their scores for nine holes and work on their short games. You can be sure that I put that score card on the fridge for everyone to see. Of course, I don’t let anyone know that I had the benefit of playing a distance roughly half of the fairway for the majority of the holes. It was dad and Reidar’s “little secret.”
As a father, it was a joy to teach my son the finer points of the game. No, I’m not talking about grip, stance, club selection, or any of that stuff. The golf pro taught him that in camp.
I’m talking about how to yell “fore” when you hit a wicked slice towards the tee box on the next fairway, where a foursome is getting ready to hit. Or how tipping the woman driving the beer cart will assure she’ll stop again to re-beer you when she comes back around.
There was also the lesson in how to improve a lie with your foot, by kicking the ball out of the woods or other identified “hazard.” My son particularly liked the method I taught him for getting out of the trap, with the patented “baseball throw” method.
And, as usual, there’s the sometimes creative scoring method. He picked up on that one quickly. It seems that shaving strokes is something golfers do almost inherently as part of their genetic code.
More serious lessons were part of that first round, though. Teaching how to tend the flag, let the person whose ball is away hit first, being quiet and courteous when other golfers were hitting, replacing ball marks and divots, and knowing where the cart can and cannot drive, for example.
The sport holds ancillary lessons, as well.
Golf, however much we sometimes hate it, is a lesson in discipline, manners, and gentlemanship. I’m not sure that last one’s a real word, but it fits what I’m trying to say. Etiquette is really the proper word.
The reason I like golf is simple. You hit 10 bad shots, then one good one. That one good one gives you such a thrill that you can then make it through the next 10 bad shots — albeit sometimes with the urge to throw your $200 driver into a water hazard.
But it must be an enjoyable experience overall, because I keep coming back.
Golf is also relaxing, often times peaceful and scenic, and a good opportunity for golf partners to just talk, far away from the hectic pace and frenetic activity of everyday life. I made sure to point out to the little man that the game wasn’t just about hitting a white ball around a course for a few hours.
So, yeah, I’m going to be a little corny here and say that my son Reidar and I did a little male bonding on the golf course on that sunny July day. But it’s a day I’ll never forget — our first round together — and I hope there will be hundreds more like it in the years to come.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
Recently, my son was introduced to the most frustrating sport on the face of the earth — golf. I hesitated to let him learn, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to submit him to the pain and agony — mixed with periodic moments of glee — that only golf can bring.
But, my son is a true sports-lover, and an avid athlete, so I relented and let him go to golf camp. Unfortunately for him, he enjoyed the camp, and the sport.
So, after his two weeks of lessons, I took him to Manistee National to golf what they call the “short set.” Marked by gold stakes at around 150-220 yards, or shorter for the par 3’s, this is a fantastic way for young golfers to get acquainted with the game, without getting frustrated about shot distance.
But of course, there was some frustration on Reidar’s part, as he whiffed a few times, took a few big divots, or overshot the greens on his chip shots — just like the big boys do. Better that he start to experience the exasperating aspects of the sport early, so he knows what’s in for him, I figured.
The short set, while a good teaching tool, is also a stellar way for dads to lower their scores for nine holes and work on their short games. You can be sure that I put that score card on the fridge for everyone to see. Of course, I don’t let anyone know that I had the benefit of playing a distance roughly half of the fairway for the majority of the holes. It was dad and Reidar’s “little secret.”
As a father, it was a joy to teach my son the finer points of the game. No, I’m not talking about grip, stance, club selection, or any of that stuff. The golf pro taught him that in camp.
I’m talking about how to yell “fore” when you hit a wicked slice towards the tee box on the next fairway, where a foursome is getting ready to hit. Or how tipping the woman driving the beer cart will assure she’ll stop again to re-beer you when she comes back around.
There was also the lesson in how to improve a lie with your foot, by kicking the ball out of the woods or other identified “hazard.” My son particularly liked the method I taught him for getting out of the trap, with the patented “baseball throw” method.
And, as usual, there’s the sometimes creative scoring method. He picked up on that one quickly. It seems that shaving strokes is something golfers do almost inherently as part of their genetic code.
More serious lessons were part of that first round, though. Teaching how to tend the flag, let the person whose ball is away hit first, being quiet and courteous when other golfers were hitting, replacing ball marks and divots, and knowing where the cart can and cannot drive, for example.
The sport holds ancillary lessons, as well.
Golf, however much we sometimes hate it, is a lesson in discipline, manners, and gentlemanship. I’m not sure that last one’s a real word, but it fits what I’m trying to say. Etiquette is really the proper word.
The reason I like golf is simple. You hit 10 bad shots, then one good one. That one good one gives you such a thrill that you can then make it through the next 10 bad shots — albeit sometimes with the urge to throw your $200 driver into a water hazard.
But it must be an enjoyable experience overall, because I keep coming back.
Golf is also relaxing, often times peaceful and scenic, and a good opportunity for golf partners to just talk, far away from the hectic pace and frenetic activity of everyday life. I made sure to point out to the little man that the game wasn’t just about hitting a white ball around a course for a few hours.
So, yeah, I’m going to be a little corny here and say that my son Reidar and I did a little male bonding on the golf course on that sunny July day. But it’s a day I’ll never forget — our first round together — and I hope there will be hundreds more like it in the years to come.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Friday, July 13, 2007
Why we keep some friends but not others (MNA July 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
I have known my best friend for over 30 years. We’ve kept in touch despite what parts of the state or country we’ve lived in, throughout each stage of our lives since grade school.
That is a long time to maintain a friendship, and it has had every chance to falter, fail, or fall to the wayside, but it hasn’t.
With email, cell phones, and instant messenger, it isn’t so hard to keep in touch with those we care for -- or so it would seem.
There are friends I had in high school, or college, or in other cities I’ve lived in, that I have since Googled and can no longer find.
Some of these are friends I saw every day at work, or even roomates I lived with for a couple of years.
And forget about finding old friends of the female persuasion. Most change their last name when they get married and become almost impossible to track down.
So what makes us keep some friends but not others?
What is the glue that holds some friendships together, but doesn’t bind them all?
There appears to be different classes of friendship. We have the one best friend, or group of good friends, the ones you would take a bullet for or hide a murder weapon for if asked, and then there’s whole other classifications of friends.
There’s the work friend, who, you might hang out with once in a while, or get a beer with after work, but once you get a new job, the tie is lost and you dont’ really talk anymore.
There’s the high school and college friends who tend to move away, move on, and lose touch, scattering into the wind like dry leaves after graduation.
The friends who tend to drop off of the radar the fastest are the “friends of a friend.” These are acquaintences who we only know through someone else. Occassionally, we hit it off with one of these folks, and they graduate to a friend first-class, but usually they fade away once the mutual friend you both share moves on.
This is similar to the friend through marriage. These are the people you hang with because they are your spouse’s friends, or the boyfriend/girlfriend of your friend. If you want to chill with your buddy, you have to endure their romantic partner, whether you like them or not. Break-ups or divorces end these acquaintences quickly.
What really gets awkward is when you hit it off with this third party friend, and continue to stay friendly once the relationship is over. Divorce the spouse, and the friends go with him/her.
I guess the big questions is: What makes us keep in touch with some people, but not make the extra effort with others?
With me, it’s often a three strike process. I move to a new town, maybe share a few phone calls or emails with a friend from the old town, and once they don’t return a call or an email three times, they fall from the frequent friend list.
Pretty soon months and years pass, and they’re ancient history.
My really good friends will call back, and I will call them back. It just isn’t worth the effort to keep up a one way friendship.
There is an exception to the three strike rule, however. We all have those friends who are just lazy, or scattered, who aren’t really good at getting back to us, but once you do connect with them, you both feel as if you’ve never lost touch. These friends require extra care and feeding, and patience, but usually are worth it.
That old saying really does apply. Good friends can go a long time without speaking or seeing each other, and just pick right up where they left off.
So, the answer to why we keep some pals and lose others really boils down to how much we want to work to keep in touch, and how worthwhile it is. And how good we feel when we keep in touch with them.
So, if you haven’t touched base with a friend in a while, call, or email, or instant messenger, fax, or do whatever you have to do to keep the lines of communication open.
Don’t let them fall into the abyss of ex-friendshipdom. It’s a lonely place, populated by old work friends, friend of friends, and other assorted characters who didn’t cut the mustard.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
I have known my best friend for over 30 years. We’ve kept in touch despite what parts of the state or country we’ve lived in, throughout each stage of our lives since grade school.
That is a long time to maintain a friendship, and it has had every chance to falter, fail, or fall to the wayside, but it hasn’t.
With email, cell phones, and instant messenger, it isn’t so hard to keep in touch with those we care for -- or so it would seem.
There are friends I had in high school, or college, or in other cities I’ve lived in, that I have since Googled and can no longer find.
Some of these are friends I saw every day at work, or even roomates I lived with for a couple of years.
And forget about finding old friends of the female persuasion. Most change their last name when they get married and become almost impossible to track down.
So what makes us keep some friends but not others?
What is the glue that holds some friendships together, but doesn’t bind them all?
There appears to be different classes of friendship. We have the one best friend, or group of good friends, the ones you would take a bullet for or hide a murder weapon for if asked, and then there’s whole other classifications of friends.
There’s the work friend, who, you might hang out with once in a while, or get a beer with after work, but once you get a new job, the tie is lost and you dont’ really talk anymore.
There’s the high school and college friends who tend to move away, move on, and lose touch, scattering into the wind like dry leaves after graduation.
The friends who tend to drop off of the radar the fastest are the “friends of a friend.” These are acquaintences who we only know through someone else. Occassionally, we hit it off with one of these folks, and they graduate to a friend first-class, but usually they fade away once the mutual friend you both share moves on.
This is similar to the friend through marriage. These are the people you hang with because they are your spouse’s friends, or the boyfriend/girlfriend of your friend. If you want to chill with your buddy, you have to endure their romantic partner, whether you like them or not. Break-ups or divorces end these acquaintences quickly.
What really gets awkward is when you hit it off with this third party friend, and continue to stay friendly once the relationship is over. Divorce the spouse, and the friends go with him/her.
I guess the big questions is: What makes us keep in touch with some people, but not make the extra effort with others?
With me, it’s often a three strike process. I move to a new town, maybe share a few phone calls or emails with a friend from the old town, and once they don’t return a call or an email three times, they fall from the frequent friend list.
Pretty soon months and years pass, and they’re ancient history.
My really good friends will call back, and I will call them back. It just isn’t worth the effort to keep up a one way friendship.
There is an exception to the three strike rule, however. We all have those friends who are just lazy, or scattered, who aren’t really good at getting back to us, but once you do connect with them, you both feel as if you’ve never lost touch. These friends require extra care and feeding, and patience, but usually are worth it.
That old saying really does apply. Good friends can go a long time without speaking or seeing each other, and just pick right up where they left off.
So, the answer to why we keep some pals and lose others really boils down to how much we want to work to keep in touch, and how worthwhile it is. And how good we feel when we keep in touch with them.
So, if you haven’t touched base with a friend in a while, call, or email, or instant messenger, fax, or do whatever you have to do to keep the lines of communication open.
Don’t let them fall into the abyss of ex-friendshipdom. It’s a lonely place, populated by old work friends, friend of friends, and other assorted characters who didn’t cut the mustard.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
The river lets you get away from it all (MNA July 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
Canoeing. The word doesn’t look right. It totally breaks that rule about dropping the “e” before adding “ing.”
Or maybe the word just looks strange because it’s been so long since I’ve actually done it. That’s why I jumped on the chance to take part of the Forest Festival canoe tour of the Big Manistee River on Tuesday.
I figured I already had a canoe that wasn’t being used, so why not?
You see, I’ve had a canoe for almost 13 years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have actually put paddle to water while sitting in it. We received it as a wedding gift from one of my wife Tiana’s dads (long story). At the time, we were kind of land-locked, living in an apartment in Lansing. So the canoe lived at my mother-in-law’s house for a while.
Then we moved to Washington D.C. The canoe stayed behind. A few years later, we moved to Los Angeles. The canoe stayed behind. Somehow — and I don’t recollect how — the canoe moved around on its own. I think it was at my other father-in-law’s house for a while, and then somehow ended up at my parent’s little piece of land on Little Platte Lake in Honor. There wasn’t even a house there back then, just land. I think we had it with us when we rented a house on Little Platte, too, but its all fuzzy now. For at least the last eight years, it has sat overturned on the bank of Little Platte Lake, awaiting some action.
What I’m trying to impart is that the canoe moved around a lot, and saw very little paddle time. Which is odd, because I used to take a canoe trip every June with my father and some other father/son duo’s as a kid. We canoed rivers all over the state — even the U.P. We would research which rivers were the fastest, or most challenging, and off we’d go the first weekend of June each summer to tackle ‘em.
We would always camp out, and spend a whole day on selected waterways, racing each other, tipping each other over, and generally doing that male bonding thing that we guys do. We even canoed a river with all of our camping gear once, camped overnight in the middle of nowhere just at the river’s edge, and then got up the next day and did it all over again.
That ritual of canoeing went on for years, until we reached college age. I don’t think I’ve been in a canoe with dad since. My wife and I went a couple of times while we were dating, and that was the last canoe trip for me. And as I recall, they were all good times.
So it really surprises me that I went so long without hitting the river again. I guess jobs, kids, and the other time restrictions imposed by a 21st century existence sometimes crowd out simple, enjoyable activities like a good float down a lazy stream.
Fast forward to Tuesday, when I convinced sports editor Matt Wenzel to come with me for a paddle session. I tried to practice canoeing by myself on the lake once a few weeks ago, and the front of the canoe tilted up at an alarming angle, making it difficult to either steer or see. So I needed some weight in the front.
That’s where Matt came in.
He made better conversation than a bucket full of rocks, and could pass back treats from the cooler to me. Plus I found out he makes a darn good spotter/steerer.
I’m proud to say we had zero collisions, and not even a single close call. Pretty good, considering we were out of practice. I suppose canoeing is like riding a bike. Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.
For two city boys, who weren’t even sure where the boat launch was initially, it was nice to just float, make simple course corrections once in a while, and enjoy the trip. We saw a couple of big birds, fish, what looked like some sort of river mammal who swam right in front of the boat, and some fishermen and other assorted gawkers along the shore (see Matt’s column.)
The trip was quiet, serene, and un-cluttered with the auditory graffitti of daily life. No television, radio, traffic noise, or telephones ringing. For a few hours, we unplugged from the world, and reset our brains.
Seems like everyone could stand to do that once in a while.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
Canoeing. The word doesn’t look right. It totally breaks that rule about dropping the “e” before adding “ing.”
Or maybe the word just looks strange because it’s been so long since I’ve actually done it. That’s why I jumped on the chance to take part of the Forest Festival canoe tour of the Big Manistee River on Tuesday.
I figured I already had a canoe that wasn’t being used, so why not?
You see, I’ve had a canoe for almost 13 years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have actually put paddle to water while sitting in it. We received it as a wedding gift from one of my wife Tiana’s dads (long story). At the time, we were kind of land-locked, living in an apartment in Lansing. So the canoe lived at my mother-in-law’s house for a while.
Then we moved to Washington D.C. The canoe stayed behind. A few years later, we moved to Los Angeles. The canoe stayed behind. Somehow — and I don’t recollect how — the canoe moved around on its own. I think it was at my other father-in-law’s house for a while, and then somehow ended up at my parent’s little piece of land on Little Platte Lake in Honor. There wasn’t even a house there back then, just land. I think we had it with us when we rented a house on Little Platte, too, but its all fuzzy now. For at least the last eight years, it has sat overturned on the bank of Little Platte Lake, awaiting some action.
What I’m trying to impart is that the canoe moved around a lot, and saw very little paddle time. Which is odd, because I used to take a canoe trip every June with my father and some other father/son duo’s as a kid. We canoed rivers all over the state — even the U.P. We would research which rivers were the fastest, or most challenging, and off we’d go the first weekend of June each summer to tackle ‘em.
We would always camp out, and spend a whole day on selected waterways, racing each other, tipping each other over, and generally doing that male bonding thing that we guys do. We even canoed a river with all of our camping gear once, camped overnight in the middle of nowhere just at the river’s edge, and then got up the next day and did it all over again.
That ritual of canoeing went on for years, until we reached college age. I don’t think I’ve been in a canoe with dad since. My wife and I went a couple of times while we were dating, and that was the last canoe trip for me. And as I recall, they were all good times.
So it really surprises me that I went so long without hitting the river again. I guess jobs, kids, and the other time restrictions imposed by a 21st century existence sometimes crowd out simple, enjoyable activities like a good float down a lazy stream.
Fast forward to Tuesday, when I convinced sports editor Matt Wenzel to come with me for a paddle session. I tried to practice canoeing by myself on the lake once a few weeks ago, and the front of the canoe tilted up at an alarming angle, making it difficult to either steer or see. So I needed some weight in the front.
That’s where Matt came in.
He made better conversation than a bucket full of rocks, and could pass back treats from the cooler to me. Plus I found out he makes a darn good spotter/steerer.
I’m proud to say we had zero collisions, and not even a single close call. Pretty good, considering we were out of practice. I suppose canoeing is like riding a bike. Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.
For two city boys, who weren’t even sure where the boat launch was initially, it was nice to just float, make simple course corrections once in a while, and enjoy the trip. We saw a couple of big birds, fish, what looked like some sort of river mammal who swam right in front of the boat, and some fishermen and other assorted gawkers along the shore (see Matt’s column.)
The trip was quiet, serene, and un-cluttered with the auditory graffitti of daily life. No television, radio, traffic noise, or telephones ringing. For a few hours, we unplugged from the world, and reset our brains.
Seems like everyone could stand to do that once in a while.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Thursday, July 05, 2007
My favorite running partner (MNA July 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
My three-year-old yellow lab’s name is Gunnar. But his name should be tow-truck.
I’ll explain.
I have been an on-again off-again runner for over 20 years. I’ve done one marathon -- probably my last -- and a couple of triathlons, along with several 5K’s and 10K’s to round things out. I wouldn’t say that I’m a great runner. I’m not fast, and I don’t ever win my age group.
But I enjoy running, and it makes me feel good. So I try to run a couple of times a week when the weather is nice. And I also like to exercise Gunnar. He gets plenty of exercise during bird hunting season, but the winter leaves him a little chunky. It just isn’t fun to take him outside for a walk during the bitter, cold, northern Michigan winter. So, it only made sense that I drag him along on my 5K workout runs.
Usually, he keeps up with me just fine. With his boundless energy and four legs, he stays just a bit ahead of me, sometimes pulling at the length of his leash. The only time I ever outlasted him on a run was when I foolishly took him on a five mile run. About halfway through, he just gave up and sat down. I tried to pull him along, but he refused to move his little legs. He was like one of those stubborn old mules in an old Laurel and Hardy film.
It turns out, he isn’t completely destructible. He can get tired. He does get overheated.
But at the 3.1 mile distance I usually do, he is a fantastic running partner. And a good motivator too. That’s why I said I should re-name him tow-truck, because when I’m dragging a little bit, maybe because I didn’t get enough sleep, or I ran the first half of my workout too fast, or simply because I’m not in the mood to run, he tows me along.
Gunnar keeps pressing on, keeps those paws pounding the pavement, and looks back at me with a “c’mon, man, put it in gear” kind of look. And that gets me going again.
He does exactly what you want a good running partner to do. He helps me through the rough spots.
There are some days when I really don’t want to work out, and I see him sitting by the door with that drooly perma-grin that says “where are you going? We’ve got work to do, partner.” I try to ignore him, but the guilt overcomes me more often than not, and we at least go on a brisk walk if we can’t make it for a full running session.
I’ve run with friends, co-workers, and in running clubs -- but the best running partner I’ve ever had is a furry yellow guy with a Scandinavian name who used to eat his own poop when he was little.
In fact, the only drawback to running with him is the occasional, shall we say, by-product, that I have to clean up after him when the run is over. But I suppose it’s the price to pay for his friendship, and his companionship.
So, as long as he is able -- and I’m willing -- I’ll continue to use him for motivation to exercise, and I’m sure he’ll continue to follow me out the front door and down the driveway for our two or three time per week running sessions. You’ll see us out there, along the side of the road -- sometimes with me pulling him along, other times with him pulling me along.
Mostly with him pulling me along.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
My three-year-old yellow lab’s name is Gunnar. But his name should be tow-truck.
I’ll explain.
I have been an on-again off-again runner for over 20 years. I’ve done one marathon -- probably my last -- and a couple of triathlons, along with several 5K’s and 10K’s to round things out. I wouldn’t say that I’m a great runner. I’m not fast, and I don’t ever win my age group.
But I enjoy running, and it makes me feel good. So I try to run a couple of times a week when the weather is nice. And I also like to exercise Gunnar. He gets plenty of exercise during bird hunting season, but the winter leaves him a little chunky. It just isn’t fun to take him outside for a walk during the bitter, cold, northern Michigan winter. So, it only made sense that I drag him along on my 5K workout runs.
Usually, he keeps up with me just fine. With his boundless energy and four legs, he stays just a bit ahead of me, sometimes pulling at the length of his leash. The only time I ever outlasted him on a run was when I foolishly took him on a five mile run. About halfway through, he just gave up and sat down. I tried to pull him along, but he refused to move his little legs. He was like one of those stubborn old mules in an old Laurel and Hardy film.
It turns out, he isn’t completely destructible. He can get tired. He does get overheated.
But at the 3.1 mile distance I usually do, he is a fantastic running partner. And a good motivator too. That’s why I said I should re-name him tow-truck, because when I’m dragging a little bit, maybe because I didn’t get enough sleep, or I ran the first half of my workout too fast, or simply because I’m not in the mood to run, he tows me along.
Gunnar keeps pressing on, keeps those paws pounding the pavement, and looks back at me with a “c’mon, man, put it in gear” kind of look. And that gets me going again.
He does exactly what you want a good running partner to do. He helps me through the rough spots.
There are some days when I really don’t want to work out, and I see him sitting by the door with that drooly perma-grin that says “where are you going? We’ve got work to do, partner.” I try to ignore him, but the guilt overcomes me more often than not, and we at least go on a brisk walk if we can’t make it for a full running session.
I’ve run with friends, co-workers, and in running clubs -- but the best running partner I’ve ever had is a furry yellow guy with a Scandinavian name who used to eat his own poop when he was little.
In fact, the only drawback to running with him is the occasional, shall we say, by-product, that I have to clean up after him when the run is over. But I suppose it’s the price to pay for his friendship, and his companionship.
So, as long as he is able -- and I’m willing -- I’ll continue to use him for motivation to exercise, and I’m sure he’ll continue to follow me out the front door and down the driveway for our two or three time per week running sessions. You’ll see us out there, along the side of the road -- sometimes with me pulling him along, other times with him pulling me along.
Mostly with him pulling me along.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Monday, July 02, 2007
The girl, the motorcycle — and the rest is history (MNA June 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
About 14 years ago, I was blissfully unaware of how a motorcycle would change my life forever.
Single and working my first job as a legislative aide at the state capitol, I had few cares in the world. The rent on my tiny, slightly furnished studio apartment was relatively easy to meet each month, and the only other bills I had were a small monthly fee for the privelege of driving my Geo Tracker, and payments on a $500 credit card balance.
My days were spent toiling away at my little government job, and the nights were wasted on cheap beer and free bands at any one of East Lansing or Lansing’s assorted taverns. It was at one of those beer gardens that a mutual friend introduced me to a cute, curly-haired girl on a noisy Thursday evening.
After a few minutes of light conversation, the time came for us to part ways, and I felt the courage to ask her out slipping away. Then she said something that made my ears perk up.
“I have a motorcycle — you should take a ride with me,” she said.
That’s when I knew I had to get to know this girl better. How cool is a chick with a motorcycle? I got her number and asked her out a few days later.
If you haven’t guessed already, that motorcycle chick eventually agreed to become my wife, Tiana. We’ll celebrate our lucky 13th wedding anniversary in August.
The funny thing about her saying I could take a ride with her was that she hates riding with someone on the back of her bike. You see, my wife’s somewhat of an independent spirit, especially when it comes to the cycle. I can remember only a few times (maybe two) that I actually got to take that ride she promised.
So, the only way I could really ride the bike was by myself — if she would let me. And she wouldn’t let me until I took the state certified motorcycle class and passed to get my motorcycle endorsement. Which I did.
And then I got to ride the bike.
When we were first married, we were flat broke. College bills, credit card bills, and all the costs associated with starting a new marriage kept us poor but happy. With finances tight, that old Yamaha of my wife’s became our second car.
Rain, shine — or even snow sometimes — one of us would ride the motorcycle to work, while the other drove the car. Until one day we finally had enough money to buy a second car. So the motorcycle sat.
And sat.
The demands of work and other diversions of life kept us from even taking pleasure rides on the bike. That’s when Tiana was offered a job in Washington D.C. It didn’t make sense for us to take the bike with us, so we sold it.
When two guys showed up at our door to pick the cycle up, it wouldn’t even start anymore. It had done it’s duty. The machine which had opened the door to our relationship moved on to greener pastures.
We went years without buying another motorcycle. Despite moving to Washington D.C. and later Los Angeles, we both kept our motorcycle endorsements current on our drivers’ licenses, hoping that one day we might again eventually buy another bike.
It wasn’t until over 10 years later that I got a call from Tiana while she was down in Detroit on a business trip. “I’ve found a bike and I fell in love with it. Can I get it?” she asked.
How could I say no?
So we became the proud owners of a 1989 Harley Davidson Sportster. It had a flashier paint job than our old bike. It was 1200 cc’s compared to the old Yamaha’s 550. I’ll admit, it’s a cool bike.
With gas prices soaring, I like to ride the cycle to work now. Six dollars worth of high-test gas will last me weeks. And it’s a blast riding down the road with the wind in my face, my shirt blowing back, and nothing but sunshine and road dust between me and the rest of world.
But I have to admit, I wonder sometimes, what ever happened to that old Yamaha. Is it sitting in a junkyard or backyard somewhere, rusting and unused? Or is it in someone’s garage, lovingly cared for and enjoyed by an owner who somehow senses the magic and history the bike had for a couple of it’s owners from over a decade ago.
I like to think the latter.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
About 14 years ago, I was blissfully unaware of how a motorcycle would change my life forever.
Single and working my first job as a legislative aide at the state capitol, I had few cares in the world. The rent on my tiny, slightly furnished studio apartment was relatively easy to meet each month, and the only other bills I had were a small monthly fee for the privelege of driving my Geo Tracker, and payments on a $500 credit card balance.
My days were spent toiling away at my little government job, and the nights were wasted on cheap beer and free bands at any one of East Lansing or Lansing’s assorted taverns. It was at one of those beer gardens that a mutual friend introduced me to a cute, curly-haired girl on a noisy Thursday evening.
After a few minutes of light conversation, the time came for us to part ways, and I felt the courage to ask her out slipping away. Then she said something that made my ears perk up.
“I have a motorcycle — you should take a ride with me,” she said.
That’s when I knew I had to get to know this girl better. How cool is a chick with a motorcycle? I got her number and asked her out a few days later.
If you haven’t guessed already, that motorcycle chick eventually agreed to become my wife, Tiana. We’ll celebrate our lucky 13th wedding anniversary in August.
The funny thing about her saying I could take a ride with her was that she hates riding with someone on the back of her bike. You see, my wife’s somewhat of an independent spirit, especially when it comes to the cycle. I can remember only a few times (maybe two) that I actually got to take that ride she promised.
So, the only way I could really ride the bike was by myself — if she would let me. And she wouldn’t let me until I took the state certified motorcycle class and passed to get my motorcycle endorsement. Which I did.
And then I got to ride the bike.
When we were first married, we were flat broke. College bills, credit card bills, and all the costs associated with starting a new marriage kept us poor but happy. With finances tight, that old Yamaha of my wife’s became our second car.
Rain, shine — or even snow sometimes — one of us would ride the motorcycle to work, while the other drove the car. Until one day we finally had enough money to buy a second car. So the motorcycle sat.
And sat.
The demands of work and other diversions of life kept us from even taking pleasure rides on the bike. That’s when Tiana was offered a job in Washington D.C. It didn’t make sense for us to take the bike with us, so we sold it.
When two guys showed up at our door to pick the cycle up, it wouldn’t even start anymore. It had done it’s duty. The machine which had opened the door to our relationship moved on to greener pastures.
We went years without buying another motorcycle. Despite moving to Washington D.C. and later Los Angeles, we both kept our motorcycle endorsements current on our drivers’ licenses, hoping that one day we might again eventually buy another bike.
It wasn’t until over 10 years later that I got a call from Tiana while she was down in Detroit on a business trip. “I’ve found a bike and I fell in love with it. Can I get it?” she asked.
How could I say no?
So we became the proud owners of a 1989 Harley Davidson Sportster. It had a flashier paint job than our old bike. It was 1200 cc’s compared to the old Yamaha’s 550. I’ll admit, it’s a cool bike.
With gas prices soaring, I like to ride the cycle to work now. Six dollars worth of high-test gas will last me weeks. And it’s a blast riding down the road with the wind in my face, my shirt blowing back, and nothing but sunshine and road dust between me and the rest of world.
But I have to admit, I wonder sometimes, what ever happened to that old Yamaha. Is it sitting in a junkyard or backyard somewhere, rusting and unused? Or is it in someone’s garage, lovingly cared for and enjoyed by an owner who somehow senses the magic and history the bike had for a couple of it’s owners from over a decade ago.
I like to think the latter.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
“It has to be up to you” (MNA June 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
“We decided, I’m going to go into the service because I had the feeling that I was needed.”
This is what Louis Shapiro said, and what many veterans of World War II say when asked about their choice to enter military service.
The other part of “we,” was Shapiro’s wife, Annette, who told her husband when he said he was considering entering the army “I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t tell you to go or not to go, it has to be up to you.”
It was a decision that the couple made together, which would separate them for almost three years, while Louis went off to the war in the European Theater as a Sergeant. There, he had the task of keeping tanks and other machinery repaired for Allied troops.
He says his training was for “repairing anything from a watch to a shaft for an artillery piece.”
So, like many other citizen soldiers, Shapiro had to leave his wife of a year and a half, his family, and his civilian job in an auto supply/auto machine shop, and go off to support the troops who invaded Normandy.
“We went down to the depot, all the family there — I felt very sad. And here I am going all alone, don’t know what I’m going to do or what, and I got on the train,” says Shapiro.
Once in the army, his experience wasn’t limited to repairing machinery, though. In training, one of the guys in his company asked, “Hey Sarge, would you like to go for a ride in this tank?” to which Shapiro replied, “Sure, show me how it works.”
“Now, I’m going to go up in the turret,” the soldier told him. And off went Shapiro behind the wheel, at breakneck speed on the base’s test track, with the other soldier up top.
“So I was really traveling along there, and I’m talking to him. Man, I’m hitting bumps and everything else,” says Shapiro. “And I’m not getting an answer, and I look up there, and all I see is eight fingers hanging onto a ledge.
“I had hit a bump and knocked him out of the turret.”
“I finally got it stopped and he come in — I hate to tell you what he said to me, but he wasn’t very happy.”
Once he finished with training and shipped off to Europe, Shapiro’s unit was tasked with supporting the 3rd Army, moving with trucks filled with all manner of machinery. “We could make anything that we wanted, and it traveled with us and our company. Our company was on its own quite a bit, many miles at times from headquarters. And so we were able to do a lot of service for the different organizations.”
His unit did more than just maintenance. They performed other tasks such as re-tooling rotors for jeeps, and even made a new screw shaft for a large piece of artillery.
But Shapiro’s unit was also assigned to guard Fort Jean Darte, an underground fort left over from World War I, which the Germans had used to manufacture airplane parts. Twenty soldiers from his unit, Shapiro, a lieutenant, and soldiers from other units, went into the subterranean fort with eight foot thick cement walls to protect it from falling back into German hands.
He recalls that the fort was littered with the remains of cart horses which the former German inhabitants had eaten when they ran out of food. Sleeping on straw which was originally for the horses, the American soldiers had to contend with rats which “were bigger than cats,” according to Shapiro. His unit remained there until after the Battle of Bulge.
While at the fort, one of the soldiers picked up an anti-tank mine and tried to open it. It was a gruesome occurrence which Shapiro says “has never left my mind.”
Another memory burned into his mind was from Dachau, which his unit camped only four miles away from shortly after the war ended.
“There were a couple little girls that were in the prison camp that had come out and I had visited with them, and they’d speak a little bit of English, and they were so swelled up from malnutrition. I was fortunate enough once in a while to get (them) food from home or some rations that I didn’t eat.”
When his service was over, and Shapiro finally was able to go home — he almost lost his paperwork. Catching a ride to a train in an ambulance converted into a mail truck, the driver allowed him to sleep on the mail bags in the back. The driver woke Shapiro when they arrived at the station.
“I got up and thanked him. And meanwhile I had forgot and left all my records on his truck. I said ‘oh man, I’ll never get home now.’”
In an attempt to get his paperwork back, Shapiro enlisted the help of an MP, who took him to headquarters. In talking with the MP, he discovered that he had grown up in Easton, only eight miles from Owosso, where Shapiro was from.
The Michigan born MP was able to help him track the records down to an office at headquarters, and found a major who retrieved them from a desk. By luck and a joint effort, the two had managed to find his valuable ticket home.
Shapiro never saw the MP again, despite living less than 10 miles away from each other back in the States. “In all my days here in Michigan and at home, I tried to find him and I never could find him.”
It wasn’t the only face from back in Michigan he would see on his journey home. “Believe it or not, as I was on the deck (of a ship) and we were going home, here was an officer, up on the top deck, that I knew was from Lansing. His name was Bernie Friedland. I hollered up there and he hollered back. He said ‘I’ll get home before you. I’ll tell your folks you’re on your way.”
After arriving at Camp Attlebury, Ind., Shapiro caught a ride to Detroit in an old Plymouth — from a guy who was charging for rides — where his wife was waiting for him with her sister, whose husband was also in the service.
“I got to the house and there was my beautiful wife standing there to greet me. I can see her as though it was yesterday with her hair done way up high, and she was just as pretty as a picture.”
“And that,” says the humble Shapiro of his war experiences, “that’s about it.”
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Fishing for answers (June 07 MNA)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
Lake Michigan is the main tourist attraction for Manistee in the summer because of its spectacular sunsets and inviting beaches, but also because of the fantastic sport fishing opportunities to be had on the big lake. So it’s no surprise how protective the fishermen can be, who make Manistee their main port of call.
What has local fishermen concerned these days is the entry of a new type of fishing out on the lake this summer — because the waters of Manistee are in a state of change with commercial fishing now underway, as a venture by the Little River Band of Ottawa Indians.
• • •
This business expansion will have five commercial fishing boats operating out of Manistee, and when completed, it is hoped it will bring up to 100 jobs to the area for tribal and non-tribal people alike. Currently, the operation employs about 25.
The structured fishing coalition is made up of commercial fishers from the Little River Band of Ottawa Indians and is based in Manistee, but also operates out of Ludington and Muskegon, fishing the waters of Lake Michigan from Grand Haven north to Arcadia as part of what is known as the Treaty Fishing Zone, established in the 2000 Consent Decree. They are also proposing to fish in the intertribal waters that extend north from Frankfort across to Escanaba.
“We want to protect our rights as tribal fishermen,” said Don Stone, who, along with his sons, was key in getting an accord created and presented to the tribe to fund the operation. “It’s something we had all along that’s never been taken away from us, and traditionally our people supported themselves — made their livelihoods and existence — on fishing in one form or another.”
The president of the Manistee County Sport Fishing Association, Kevin Hughes, and Howard Vaas, representing Manistee Area Charter Boats, were part of a recent meeting held with the commercial fishermen to educate the public about the venture.
“Our biggest concern is safety,” says Hughes. “They have their right to fish out there, but our concern is being able to fish and not impeding the safety of recreational fishermen.”
Hughes is optimistic so far.
“They’re doing a good job of trying to mark (the nets),” he said.
Regardless, many sport fishermen are worried that the public may steer clear of fishing in the area due to a fear of the nets, and the perception that it may be less safe to troll the waters where they are set.
“The professional guys like ourselves, we’re pretty knowledgeable and have good navigation equipment,” said Hughes.
“But I’m concerned about ma and pa — and the guy that comes from Rogers City, or the the guy who comes from Harrisville. A lot of those people came to Manistee last year because their fishing (Lake Huron) wasn’t so good. If all of the sudden people are scared to go out there because of the net situation, that’s not good for the whole economy.”
That’s why all of the fishermen seem to feel that the proper education of the public is key to the success of the situation.
And that’s one of the prime reasons for participation in a running dialogue of the sport fishermen with the commercial fishing operation — to gain information on how the nets used by the tribal fishermen will be marked, mapping procedures planned so that the charter captains would know where the nets are located, and an update on the posting of GPS coordinates of the nets on a Website and in other public places to assist local fishermen and boaters.
The tribal fishermen have promised to pass all of this information along. An agreement was also reached on posting information on the nets themselves, and assisting recreational fishermen to learn how to navigate safely around nets.
“They say they want the spirit of cooperation,” says Hughes. “And I think we’ve had that. We’ve had some good dialogue. Time will tell. The bottom line is, rhetoric is fine, but action speaks louder than words.
“We’re just taking a wait and see policy; see how well they’re marked, and are they trying to share the fishery. We’ve got to be able to have some coastline to troll out there unimpeded. I’ve been urging my members to be patient, to give it a chance — we should be able to co-exist.”
And the commercial fishermen say that they can and will work to co-exist. In 2000, the Little River Band agreed not target any fish that is caught by sport fishers (i.e., trout, salmon); and not to authorize the use of large mesh gill nets in Lake Michigan from the Manistee/Benzie County line south to Grand Haven.
They are, however, allowed to keep a certain amount of this “by-catch,” (non-targeted fish) legally, if they choose to do so.
“We’re trying to catch whitefish,” said fisherman Ken King, who is also a consultant to the fishing operation. “We’re not trying to catch brown trout or steelhead. I can count on one hand the number of salmon I’ve caught, and I’ve been fishing for 20 years. It’s not what we’re in business for. We’re just honest guys trying to make an honest living.”
They also say they don’t want to push sport fishermen out of their favorite spots if at all possible.
“We had set nets up in a place called ‘The Barrel,’ just outside of Arcadia. We had one of the charter boat captains come in and explain to us that was a favorite area of fishermen,” says Don Stone.
Stone decided to pull his nets out of that area as a result of the information.
“We’re not going to be setting there anymore,” he said. “If we had known ahead of time, we wouldn’t have set there.”
The commercial fishermen say that they want to work with others as much as possible, and to ensure that the fishing is managed properly.
“A methodical approach to commercial fisheries, in respect of charter, and what we do — everyone’s going to have a certain amount of responsibility to maintain the (fish) herd,” said Levi Stone.
“And that’s our job as individuals, not to abdicate too much, but to take enough to earn a living off of and leave enough so that it’s there for the next guy. Once there’s human intervention, you have an obligation to manage it.”
The trap net operations are limited to 12 nets per boat and the small mesh gill net operations are limited to 24,000 feet of net per operation. Tribal trap net fishers are only allowed to target and retain whitefish (19 inches and larger) and menominee. Small mesh gill net fishers may only target and retain bloater chubs.
The fishers are required to release all other species back to the lake. Commercial trap net fishers are required to observe a spawning closure from noon on Nov. 6 through noon of Nov. 29 of each year to protect the fish stocks. All trap nets must be either removed from the water, or tied closed.
Tribal Natural Resource Department director, Jimmie Mitchell, has volunteered to take responsibility over the commercial fishing program, which includes monitoring the fishing activities and mandatory catch reports. “Tribal fishing with nets is culturally inherent to our people,” Mitchell said. “Fishing in this old way has been fraught with controversy over previous years, but fishing is central to our identity as Indian people.”
And the fishermen themselves feel that they are doing their best to make the situation work for both sides.
“By going above and beyond the required markings, and marking every single amount of rigging we have on that net, we’re doing the best we can to avail them (other fishermen) of what’s there,” said fisherman Levi Stone.
“I think they (the public) need to be educated on the gear, and how the gear works,” said fisherman Mike Kerborsky, another consultant for the project. “So they can have an understanding of what’s going on out there.”
Some fishermen who are familiar with netting operations and how to navigate them even fish near the nets, the commercial fishermen say.
“Once they get familiar with them, they love them,” said Levi Stone. “There’s a guy in Ludington who just tears it up in tournaments fishing around the nets.”
CPO Mike Jensen of Coast Guard Station Manistee believes that the net markings are adequate and he hasn’t seen any problems, so far, with the operation.
“We were out there the other day, and it seemed to me that they were marked well enough that I wasn’t getting into danger with them,” said Jensen. “I know that the tribal police monitors (them) — they have regulations set in place for what type of markings they’re supposed to display — so I know they’re enforcing that. To me, it seemed adequate.”
“At night, if there’s no retro (retroreflective tape), that might be another story,” Jensen said.
He added that crabbers on the ocean do not use retro tape, and it sometimes can be a problem with fishermen running at night with the crab traps.
“Comparatively speaking, these (here in Lake Michigan) are fairly well marked,” he said.
Some fishermen who have spoken out about the situation see running their lines in low light conditions with nets in place as a major safety concern.
“You can’t fish in the dark, even if they’re marked, and some of the best fishing is right at dawn,” says Ken Glasser, who has been fishing in Manistee for years, but cancelled his plans to fish over Memorial Day weekend because of the netting, and says he won’t come to Manistee at all this year to fish.
“I’m just not coming...and taking that kind of risk. I’ll go somewhere else. They’re in places where we fish, like in the shelf, and up to the north. Once the nets are gone, I’ll think about coming back — if there’s any fish left.”
Dan Agnello, of Jackson, feels the same way.
“I’ve been going up to Manistee for 27 years, and if those fish nets are there, I’m not going to go fishing there,” he says.
It is these types of comments that are frustrating for the commercial fishermen, and the association leaders alike.
Don Stone promises that information and education are a primary goal of the new venture. To aid in this, the commercial fishermen are planning to set up nets within the next few weeks for the public to view on dry land to see them first-hand, and invite the public to stop by and visit.
Stone has also extended an invitation to anyone wanting more information about the operation to contact him at 398-9805 or come by the office on Washington Street in the Good Thunder Motorcycles building. The fishermen can also be found where they dock their boats near the S.S. City of Milwaukee.
“We have captains, a few of them, stop in...to chitchat and see what’s going on and stay informed, and that’s real helpful,” said Don Stone.
“Because if we stop talking and everybody starts feeding on misinformation, innuendo and rumor, then that’s where the problem begins. As long as we can keep talking and keep the lines of information open, then it’s going to be better for everybody.”
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Looking at the world again through my children’s eyes helps to keep me young (MNA June 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
I recently went to Disney World with my family of five for the first time, and something happened to me. It felt different, somehow.
The last time I went to the magic kingdom in California, I went for myself. I’ve been there several times, the first time when I was seven years old. And I always had a blast. Every ride, every show, each attraction was amazing — no matter how hoky some of them now might seem to me as an adult.
In a world without the Internet, video games, computer generated movie effects, and 100-channel cable TV, Disney really was the most magical place on earth. For a youngster in the 70s, it was truly awesome, from the pre-Jonny Depp Pirates of the Carribbean ride to the now 40 year old Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse to the recently removed 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride.
It’s no wonder the parks have had to update rides and add some newer, more thrilling rides to keep the kids interested. The world is a little more cynical, more technologically adept, and quite frankly expects more. Despite these increased expectations, today’s multiple Disney Parks still provide the same thrill level for kids and adults alike.
But I wasn’t a kid anymore. And the exact same level of marvel wasn’t there. This trip to Florida’s version of the Disney-themed park was for my kids this time rather than myself — and that was okay with me.
In one respect it was a little sad that I didn’t get as excited as I used to when my parents would take me to an amusement park as a kid. Despite the fact that not all of the rides held the same magic they once did, it was far more enjoyable to see how much my own kids enjoyed the experience.
My kids were wired every day of our six day vacation. The number one phrase I heard that week was “lookit, dad” as my children took turns pointing out the characters, rides, and other wonderful sights at Disney World, Epcot, Animal Kingdom, MGM, and the Disney water parks.
Don’t get me wrong, I had my favorite thrill rides too. My interest have merely shifted from the tried-but-true log ride to scarier attractions such as Twilight Zone’s Tower of Terror and Aerosmith’s Rock N Rollercoaster.
And I have to admit that I was as excited about the Star Wars Weekend at Disney’s MGM Studio theme park as my son was. Seeing storm troopers, Jawas, droids, Darth Vader, Chewbacca, and the rest of the Lucas space opera gang walking around in their full regalia for photo opportunities by park visitors made me a bit giddy.
But what made me feel that same real thrill I had at age seven — and provided a glimpse back into what it felt like to experience theme parks for the first time — was watching my eight and almost three year old kids’ reactions to everything.
Suddently, all of the $8 chicken nuggets, stifling crowds, long lines, and other hassles inherent to Disney were all worth it just to see how much fun the kids were having. And yes, my daughter had a level 10 melt-down near the end of the trip, complete with kicking, screaming, and all of the other wonderful attributes that make a terrible two tantrum such a joy to witness. (And it was witnessed by several hundred Disney goers, some who nodded with that, “been there, done that” smile, and others who were mortified at that spectacle).
The entire Disney experience made me think about life these days.
Since the newest Burgeson came into the world about two months ago, I’ve been feeling old. It was far easier to handle the lack of sleep, multiple diaper changes, and constant care and attention that a newborn requires when we had our first son at the age of 28 — which now seems like a million years ago — because now that I’m closer to forty than thirty, it isn’t as easy to keep up with the new-dad lifestyle.
At the same time, having two kids under the age of three actually keeps me feeling young.
Through their eyes I’m seeing things that I’ve forgotten about for years. And it’s a joy to rediscover all of the joys of that time when I was young, and innocent, and seeing and experiencing a so much for the very first time.
With my two-going-on-thirteen-year-old daughter, I am re-experiencing my own trials and tribulations of growing up with a little sister. The two older kids bicker, and fight, and tattle on each other just like my sister and I did when we were young.
I know the “dad, Reidar hit me” (even though he really didn’t) trick, because it was pulled on me time and time again by my own sister. I also know the ‘stick your foot out when your sister runs through the living room and watch her take a header” trick, which I myself perfected back in 1974.
With my eight-year-old son, I get to remember the joy of learning to read, enjoying the simplicity of playing catch in the backyard, and spending lazy afternoons fishing in a 16 foot aluminum boat on the lake — among many others.
And as my children each get older, I will get to re-examine life at every stage; age 10, 11, 12, 13,...
And all the while, continue to feel young through my kids.
So, while I sometimes want to pull out what is left of my hair (about 30 percent) when my daughter rather loudly and defiantly refuses to potty on the big potty, or when my son bounces hockey pucks off of the windows in the living room, or when I get home from work at midnight and fall in bed, only to have the baby wake me at 12:15 — I realize that it’s all worth it.
Because they will never be two-years-old again, or eight-years-old again, or 7-weeks-old again. And I know that I’ll miss these crazy, hectic, wondrous times.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
I recently went to Disney World with my family of five for the first time, and something happened to me. It felt different, somehow.
The last time I went to the magic kingdom in California, I went for myself. I’ve been there several times, the first time when I was seven years old. And I always had a blast. Every ride, every show, each attraction was amazing — no matter how hoky some of them now might seem to me as an adult.
In a world without the Internet, video games, computer generated movie effects, and 100-channel cable TV, Disney really was the most magical place on earth. For a youngster in the 70s, it was truly awesome, from the pre-Jonny Depp Pirates of the Carribbean ride to the now 40 year old Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse to the recently removed 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride.
It’s no wonder the parks have had to update rides and add some newer, more thrilling rides to keep the kids interested. The world is a little more cynical, more technologically adept, and quite frankly expects more. Despite these increased expectations, today’s multiple Disney Parks still provide the same thrill level for kids and adults alike.
But I wasn’t a kid anymore. And the exact same level of marvel wasn’t there. This trip to Florida’s version of the Disney-themed park was for my kids this time rather than myself — and that was okay with me.
In one respect it was a little sad that I didn’t get as excited as I used to when my parents would take me to an amusement park as a kid. Despite the fact that not all of the rides held the same magic they once did, it was far more enjoyable to see how much my own kids enjoyed the experience.
My kids were wired every day of our six day vacation. The number one phrase I heard that week was “lookit, dad” as my children took turns pointing out the characters, rides, and other wonderful sights at Disney World, Epcot, Animal Kingdom, MGM, and the Disney water parks.
Don’t get me wrong, I had my favorite thrill rides too. My interest have merely shifted from the tried-but-true log ride to scarier attractions such as Twilight Zone’s Tower of Terror and Aerosmith’s Rock N Rollercoaster.
And I have to admit that I was as excited about the Star Wars Weekend at Disney’s MGM Studio theme park as my son was. Seeing storm troopers, Jawas, droids, Darth Vader, Chewbacca, and the rest of the Lucas space opera gang walking around in their full regalia for photo opportunities by park visitors made me a bit giddy.
But what made me feel that same real thrill I had at age seven — and provided a glimpse back into what it felt like to experience theme parks for the first time — was watching my eight and almost three year old kids’ reactions to everything.
Suddently, all of the $8 chicken nuggets, stifling crowds, long lines, and other hassles inherent to Disney were all worth it just to see how much fun the kids were having. And yes, my daughter had a level 10 melt-down near the end of the trip, complete with kicking, screaming, and all of the other wonderful attributes that make a terrible two tantrum such a joy to witness. (And it was witnessed by several hundred Disney goers, some who nodded with that, “been there, done that” smile, and others who were mortified at that spectacle).
The entire Disney experience made me think about life these days.
Since the newest Burgeson came into the world about two months ago, I’ve been feeling old. It was far easier to handle the lack of sleep, multiple diaper changes, and constant care and attention that a newborn requires when we had our first son at the age of 28 — which now seems like a million years ago — because now that I’m closer to forty than thirty, it isn’t as easy to keep up with the new-dad lifestyle.
At the same time, having two kids under the age of three actually keeps me feeling young.
Through their eyes I’m seeing things that I’ve forgotten about for years. And it’s a joy to rediscover all of the joys of that time when I was young, and innocent, and seeing and experiencing a so much for the very first time.
With my two-going-on-thirteen-year-old daughter, I am re-experiencing my own trials and tribulations of growing up with a little sister. The two older kids bicker, and fight, and tattle on each other just like my sister and I did when we were young.
I know the “dad, Reidar hit me” (even though he really didn’t) trick, because it was pulled on me time and time again by my own sister. I also know the ‘stick your foot out when your sister runs through the living room and watch her take a header” trick, which I myself perfected back in 1974.
With my eight-year-old son, I get to remember the joy of learning to read, enjoying the simplicity of playing catch in the backyard, and spending lazy afternoons fishing in a 16 foot aluminum boat on the lake — among many others.
And as my children each get older, I will get to re-examine life at every stage; age 10, 11, 12, 13,...
And all the while, continue to feel young through my kids.
So, while I sometimes want to pull out what is left of my hair (about 30 percent) when my daughter rather loudly and defiantly refuses to potty on the big potty, or when my son bounces hockey pucks off of the windows in the living room, or when I get home from work at midnight and fall in bed, only to have the baby wake me at 12:15 — I realize that it’s all worth it.
Because they will never be two-years-old again, or eight-years-old again, or 7-weeks-old again. And I know that I’ll miss these crazy, hectic, wondrous times.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
TV’s Heroes aren’t the first TV Heroes (MNA June07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
One of my favorite television programs currently running is “Heroes.” For those of you who are unfamiliar, it is a drama on NBC that chronicles the lives of ordinary people who suddenly discover they possess extraordinary super powers.
Growing up in the 70s and 80s, a lot of my heroes came from television. I watched TV when I got home from school, and after dark, I would come inside from whatever I was doing to watch my favorite shows. There weren’t VHS tapes or DVD’s or even cable companies offering fancy digital video recording devices back then, so we couldn’t afford to miss our weekly stories.
Many of those in my generation grew up watching the Fonz on “Happy Days,” and, before he jumped the shark, he was a role model for many — cool, tough, and loved by the ladies. Let’s face it: Who didn’t want to be Fonzie?
And who didn’t want to be astronaut Colonel Steve Austin: The Six Million Dollar Man? Many an hour on the playground was spent pretending to run and jump in slow motion while making that famous bionic “na na na na” sound. There was the bionic woman too, for my female grade school counterparts — with whom heated arguments ensued by the monkey bars over weather Steve’s bionic vision was a better ability than Jamie’s bionic hearing. (I still think I’d rather be able to see really far than hear through a wall.)
We had “Starsky and Hutch,” “Kojak,” and “Baretta” to look up to, as well. One program had a really cool car. Another had a cool bird. The third featured a fashionably bald detective who sucked on lollipops. They were all cool characters, and heroes to boot.
Not all the heroes were cops, though. Some were doctors. Hawkeye and the gang on “M*A*S*H” were idolized for several reasons. They were in a war, which to any elementary school kid is cool; they saved people’s lives, and they played lots of practical jokes on each other. Who said war is hell?
Then came “The Incredible Hulk.” Oh how we loved that green menace. I remember getting a rip in one of my shirts when I was younger, and re-enacting for my friends how my shirt would completely rip apart as I turned into the Hulk. The gang on the playground got a good laugh out of it — but mom wasn’t too happy when she saw my shirt.
Even as a kid, I wondered why the Hulk’s pants never ripped completely apart. And how he could keep himself in clothes when he ripped through a couple of outfits every week? All David Banner carried around was that little duffel bag full of his stuff. He’d have to have like twenty pairs of pants in there to keep up.
A new kind of hero came in 1978: the probationary former moon-shiners who cleaned up their acts to fight the evil establishment in Hazard County. Bo and Luke Duke graced our screens, forever making mom and dad wonder where those scratches on the hood of the family sedan came from. (We knew it was a good idea to practice sliding across the hood when they weren’t home, of course.) Someone very close to me, whom I won’t name, even wanted her parents to let her enter and exit the car via the window, just like the boys did in the General Lee.
Law enforcement was always a steady source of programming material, and a favorite with the kids. How could we not idolize Ponch and Jon, the motorcycle riding highway patrolmen in CHiPS? Their timing was always perfect — they pulled a guy out of a burning car almost every week and just as they made it to safety, BOOM! the car blew up. (And the car always blew up, regardless of how minor the accident was.)
Another California cop we enjoyed was the man with the perfect hair and the hot blonde partner — Heather Locklear no less — T.J. Hooker. What can we say about Hooker? He had the suave style of Captain Kirk and the chicks dug his machismo, devil may care antics while on the job.
For those of us who were tired of idolizing policemen, there was always the renegade stuntman who moonlighted as a bounty hunter we could turn to. At age 12, I didn’t have any idea what a bounty hunter was, but I knew they chased bad guys who had done something called “jumping bail,” and with the help of Howie, and yet another blonde goddess, Heather Thomas — they always got their man, and made it to the set on time to light themselves on fire and jump forty two busses for the latest action movie. This was one “Fall Guy” I could idolize.
Another pair of investigators who were always getting into trouble, but weren’t cops either, were “Simon and Simon.” These often quarreling, polar-opposite brothers weren’t exactly heroes, but they were certainly entertaining. And the king of 80’s private detectives, and hero to all of us kids who wanted to grow up, sponge off of a rich guy, live in Hawaii and have adventures on a weekly basis was of course “Magnum P.I.
The third in the line of cool TV private eye shows “Rip Tide.” With their cool pink helicopter, Mimi, Nick and Cody fought crime and made with the wisecracks, along with the help of their nerdy associate, Boz. This was towards the end of my television hero worship days, though.
I think I started growing out of TV character hero worship about the time “Knight Rider” came around, in 1984. Even then, I realized David Hasselhof was far too cheesy to count among my video idols. I just couldn’t get excited about a talking car. Maybe I was getting older, and my interests were changing, or maybe I began to realize that heroes existed in the real world.
The actual heroes were the everyday people that these TV characters borrowed their fame from — doctors, soldiers, police officers, detectives, astronauts, bounty hunters, scientists — and maybe even a real private investigator who lived in Hawaii on a palatial estate.
Who knows?
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
One of my favorite television programs currently running is “Heroes.” For those of you who are unfamiliar, it is a drama on NBC that chronicles the lives of ordinary people who suddenly discover they possess extraordinary super powers.
Growing up in the 70s and 80s, a lot of my heroes came from television. I watched TV when I got home from school, and after dark, I would come inside from whatever I was doing to watch my favorite shows. There weren’t VHS tapes or DVD’s or even cable companies offering fancy digital video recording devices back then, so we couldn’t afford to miss our weekly stories.
Many of those in my generation grew up watching the Fonz on “Happy Days,” and, before he jumped the shark, he was a role model for many — cool, tough, and loved by the ladies. Let’s face it: Who didn’t want to be Fonzie?
And who didn’t want to be astronaut Colonel Steve Austin: The Six Million Dollar Man? Many an hour on the playground was spent pretending to run and jump in slow motion while making that famous bionic “na na na na” sound. There was the bionic woman too, for my female grade school counterparts — with whom heated arguments ensued by the monkey bars over weather Steve’s bionic vision was a better ability than Jamie’s bionic hearing. (I still think I’d rather be able to see really far than hear through a wall.)
We had “Starsky and Hutch,” “Kojak,” and “Baretta” to look up to, as well. One program had a really cool car. Another had a cool bird. The third featured a fashionably bald detective who sucked on lollipops. They were all cool characters, and heroes to boot.
Not all the heroes were cops, though. Some were doctors. Hawkeye and the gang on “M*A*S*H” were idolized for several reasons. They were in a war, which to any elementary school kid is cool; they saved people’s lives, and they played lots of practical jokes on each other. Who said war is hell?
Then came “The Incredible Hulk.” Oh how we loved that green menace. I remember getting a rip in one of my shirts when I was younger, and re-enacting for my friends how my shirt would completely rip apart as I turned into the Hulk. The gang on the playground got a good laugh out of it — but mom wasn’t too happy when she saw my shirt.
Even as a kid, I wondered why the Hulk’s pants never ripped completely apart. And how he could keep himself in clothes when he ripped through a couple of outfits every week? All David Banner carried around was that little duffel bag full of his stuff. He’d have to have like twenty pairs of pants in there to keep up.
A new kind of hero came in 1978: the probationary former moon-shiners who cleaned up their acts to fight the evil establishment in Hazard County. Bo and Luke Duke graced our screens, forever making mom and dad wonder where those scratches on the hood of the family sedan came from. (We knew it was a good idea to practice sliding across the hood when they weren’t home, of course.) Someone very close to me, whom I won’t name, even wanted her parents to let her enter and exit the car via the window, just like the boys did in the General Lee.
Law enforcement was always a steady source of programming material, and a favorite with the kids. How could we not idolize Ponch and Jon, the motorcycle riding highway patrolmen in CHiPS? Their timing was always perfect — they pulled a guy out of a burning car almost every week and just as they made it to safety, BOOM! the car blew up. (And the car always blew up, regardless of how minor the accident was.)
Another California cop we enjoyed was the man with the perfect hair and the hot blonde partner — Heather Locklear no less — T.J. Hooker. What can we say about Hooker? He had the suave style of Captain Kirk and the chicks dug his machismo, devil may care antics while on the job.
For those of us who were tired of idolizing policemen, there was always the renegade stuntman who moonlighted as a bounty hunter we could turn to. At age 12, I didn’t have any idea what a bounty hunter was, but I knew they chased bad guys who had done something called “jumping bail,” and with the help of Howie, and yet another blonde goddess, Heather Thomas — they always got their man, and made it to the set on time to light themselves on fire and jump forty two busses for the latest action movie. This was one “Fall Guy” I could idolize.
Another pair of investigators who were always getting into trouble, but weren’t cops either, were “Simon and Simon.” These often quarreling, polar-opposite brothers weren’t exactly heroes, but they were certainly entertaining. And the king of 80’s private detectives, and hero to all of us kids who wanted to grow up, sponge off of a rich guy, live in Hawaii and have adventures on a weekly basis was of course “Magnum P.I.
The third in the line of cool TV private eye shows “Rip Tide.” With their cool pink helicopter, Mimi, Nick and Cody fought crime and made with the wisecracks, along with the help of their nerdy associate, Boz. This was towards the end of my television hero worship days, though.
I think I started growing out of TV character hero worship about the time “Knight Rider” came around, in 1984. Even then, I realized David Hasselhof was far too cheesy to count among my video idols. I just couldn’t get excited about a talking car. Maybe I was getting older, and my interests were changing, or maybe I began to realize that heroes existed in the real world.
The actual heroes were the everyday people that these TV characters borrowed their fame from — doctors, soldiers, police officers, detectives, astronauts, bounty hunters, scientists — and maybe even a real private investigator who lived in Hawaii on a palatial estate.
Who knows?
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Aluminum bats are taking a bad rap in youth sports (MNA June 07)
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
Sports injuries happen. No matter how much conditioning or strength training a young athlete does, they will get hurt at one point in their careers.
One of the more unfortunate incidents that happen in spring sports is being struck with a baseball or softball. Everyone who has every played ball has either been hit by a pitch, taken a bad hop off of a ground ball in the chest, or in the worst case scenario — been hit by a line drive.
My own son was hit in the face last week when a hard throw tipped off of his glove and struck his face, splitting his lip. After we washed off the blood and iced it, he was as good as new. With most baseball injuries caused by a batted or thrown ball, this is the case — but not always.
In New Jersey, a 12-year-old boy was struck in the chest by a batted ball from a metal bat. The boy went into cardiac arrest and suffered serious injuries. A few years back, a boy in Florida was the victim of a similar incident and died. Incidents like this one have gotten some parents and some lawmakers up in arms about the use of aluminum bats.
Lawmakers in New Jersey are considering banning metal bats as a result of the incident. Recently, metal bats were barred from New York City high schools after the city council overrode a mayoral veto of the bill banning the bats. North Dakota has also enacted a similar ban — the only state so far to do so.
There is a concern that high school baseball players, in particular, are becoming stronger, and bat manufacturers are developing newer, more high tech bats, which give them greater bat speed and harder hit balls. North Dakota’s ban came when an American Legion player died after being struck in the head by a drive off of an aluminum bat.
Currently, the state of Michigan and the Michigan High School Athletic Association have no plans to ban metal bats from high school competition and move towards wood bats like New York City. MHSAA assistant director Mark Uyl, told the Detroit Free Press that he thinks they may have acted too quickly on this issue in New York. “There has absolutely been no support nor have we heard any criticism that would make a change,” he said. “Wood probably is more safe than aluminum. But there is no statistical data, no testing that has proved that.”
The Illinois High School Athletic Association is conducting such a study, though, with 50 participating high schools. The National Federation of State High School Associations is funding the research, and the data should be available in June. Despite their support for the study, a representative of the NFSH has said that only a few reports of kids being hit have come in nation-wide this year.
The NFSH standard for bats is the Ball Exit Speed Ratio, which tests the speed of a ball off of a bat. The standard limits aluminum bats to a similar BESR to that of a wooden bat. This figure is used to acquire a bat weight-to-length ratio to which all levels of youth baseball must adhere to — essentially equalizing wooden and metal bats.
So, what is all the fuss? If the ball comes off of the bat at the same speed, it doesn’t make sense to call the aluminum bat the culprit in these few freak instances where injuries occur. Add to that the fact that wooden bats crack and break, and pieces of them fly in the air, and the safety issue seems to lean towards aluminum bats being the safer choice.
Aside from the safety issue, from an economic perspective, metal bats are also the cheaper choice. With education budgets shrinking, and athletic funds waning, replacing broken wooden bats would soon overcome the costs of aluminum bats, which with the right care, can last a lifetime.
As a baseball purist, I personally like to keep the game and its traditions intact. But I have to admit, I played with aluminum bats for my entire career in baseball, from T-ball up to high school, and in several adult softball leagues, and I don’t remember any serious injuries. I also know that for younger children, it is far easier to learn to swing properly, learn hand-to-eye coordination, and develop bat speed with a metal bat.
Wooden bats are one tradition that is better left for the majors. The rest of us with less than professional talents have an easier time hitting with aluminum bats, and games have a lot more action and are far more fun as a result. And for the few players who advance to the level where wooden bats are the norm, there will be an adjustment — but that number of athletes is very low, and the players who make it that far have been making that adjustment for years.
I think it’s important to protect our youth from sports injuries in any way we can, whether it is through proper instruction and coaching, or the selection of the best equipment. But let’s not get so caught up in protecting our children that we buy them flak vests to play baseball in, as was suggested years ago after that youngster died from a line drive to the chest. (It was later found that the boy had a heart defect which led to his death in the incident.)
And let’s not take away aluminum bats because of a few freak accidents.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Associate Editor
Sports injuries happen. No matter how much conditioning or strength training a young athlete does, they will get hurt at one point in their careers.
One of the more unfortunate incidents that happen in spring sports is being struck with a baseball or softball. Everyone who has every played ball has either been hit by a pitch, taken a bad hop off of a ground ball in the chest, or in the worst case scenario — been hit by a line drive.
My own son was hit in the face last week when a hard throw tipped off of his glove and struck his face, splitting his lip. After we washed off the blood and iced it, he was as good as new. With most baseball injuries caused by a batted or thrown ball, this is the case — but not always.
In New Jersey, a 12-year-old boy was struck in the chest by a batted ball from a metal bat. The boy went into cardiac arrest and suffered serious injuries. A few years back, a boy in Florida was the victim of a similar incident and died. Incidents like this one have gotten some parents and some lawmakers up in arms about the use of aluminum bats.
Lawmakers in New Jersey are considering banning metal bats as a result of the incident. Recently, metal bats were barred from New York City high schools after the city council overrode a mayoral veto of the bill banning the bats. North Dakota has also enacted a similar ban — the only state so far to do so.
There is a concern that high school baseball players, in particular, are becoming stronger, and bat manufacturers are developing newer, more high tech bats, which give them greater bat speed and harder hit balls. North Dakota’s ban came when an American Legion player died after being struck in the head by a drive off of an aluminum bat.
Currently, the state of Michigan and the Michigan High School Athletic Association have no plans to ban metal bats from high school competition and move towards wood bats like New York City. MHSAA assistant director Mark Uyl, told the Detroit Free Press that he thinks they may have acted too quickly on this issue in New York. “There has absolutely been no support nor have we heard any criticism that would make a change,” he said. “Wood probably is more safe than aluminum. But there is no statistical data, no testing that has proved that.”
The Illinois High School Athletic Association is conducting such a study, though, with 50 participating high schools. The National Federation of State High School Associations is funding the research, and the data should be available in June. Despite their support for the study, a representative of the NFSH has said that only a few reports of kids being hit have come in nation-wide this year.
The NFSH standard for bats is the Ball Exit Speed Ratio, which tests the speed of a ball off of a bat. The standard limits aluminum bats to a similar BESR to that of a wooden bat. This figure is used to acquire a bat weight-to-length ratio to which all levels of youth baseball must adhere to — essentially equalizing wooden and metal bats.
So, what is all the fuss? If the ball comes off of the bat at the same speed, it doesn’t make sense to call the aluminum bat the culprit in these few freak instances where injuries occur. Add to that the fact that wooden bats crack and break, and pieces of them fly in the air, and the safety issue seems to lean towards aluminum bats being the safer choice.
Aside from the safety issue, from an economic perspective, metal bats are also the cheaper choice. With education budgets shrinking, and athletic funds waning, replacing broken wooden bats would soon overcome the costs of aluminum bats, which with the right care, can last a lifetime.
As a baseball purist, I personally like to keep the game and its traditions intact. But I have to admit, I played with aluminum bats for my entire career in baseball, from T-ball up to high school, and in several adult softball leagues, and I don’t remember any serious injuries. I also know that for younger children, it is far easier to learn to swing properly, learn hand-to-eye coordination, and develop bat speed with a metal bat.
Wooden bats are one tradition that is better left for the majors. The rest of us with less than professional talents have an easier time hitting with aluminum bats, and games have a lot more action and are far more fun as a result. And for the few players who advance to the level where wooden bats are the norm, there will be an adjustment — but that number of athletes is very low, and the players who make it that far have been making that adjustment for years.
I think it’s important to protect our youth from sports injuries in any way we can, whether it is through proper instruction and coaching, or the selection of the best equipment. But let’s not get so caught up in protecting our children that we buy them flak vests to play baseball in, as was suggested years ago after that youngster died from a line drive to the chest. (It was later found that the boy had a heart defect which led to his death in the incident.)
And let’s not take away aluminum bats because of a few freak accidents.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Monday, May 07, 2007
Grupsters grow up! (MNA May 07)
While some parents are supposedly “getting cooler,” I’d like to know “what’s the point?”
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
The Today Show ran a story this week about the so called “grupsters.” (Yes, I was watching the Today Show. My wife had it on, okay?)
Anyway, this group of people is supposedly full-fledged grown-ups with jobs in their twenties or thirties, who have families and mortgages, and, nevertheless, “refuse to be lame in the face of responsibility.” The responsibility that these people are afraid will make them “lame” is parenting their children.
They call themselves self-empowered — I say they are just self-indulgent. Their name "grupsters" is derived from hipster, yuppie and "Grups" — a term for grown-ups on a planet ruled by children in a "Star Trek" episode, according to a much-e-mailed New York magazine article last year.
Many of the parents who count themselves as part of this group consider it a "movement.” It sound more like a marketing ploy with the social power of a Hallmark created holiday. Apparently, there are clothing lines and other products designed for the trendy parent and child, and groups who gather to commiserate about how their children are robbing them of their “individuality.”
Grupsters call themselves “parents with street cred” — thirty-somethings who look, talk, act and keep up with trends as if they are still college students. As far as I’m concerned, they are thirty-somethings who pine away for the care free life of their college days, and refuse to grow up.
So, how can you determine if you’re a grupster? Does your daughter wear Dora the Explorer T-shirts or your old concert T-shirts of 80’s bands whose popularity waned a decade before they were born? Are you a Wiggles fan, or do you lull your kids to sleep with the latest Green Day album? Do you ban Barney from the house even if your kids love it? Let’s hear from one of these self proclaimed hip parents:
"Grupsters are parents who look cooler than people who call them grupsters," and that's about it, says Paige Maguire, the 29-year-old co-founder of “Rock N Romp,” a monthly independent music concert for kids and grown-ups. "I'm just parenting and living with my own identity and sharing who I am with my son, instead of wearing khakis and driving a minivan to Gymboree. I didn't have a kid so I could be a different person; I had a kid so I could introduce myself to him and learn who he is."
What? Now we’re introducing ourselves to our kids? How about we actually PARENT out kids? Maybe channel some of that “gosh I wanna be one of the cool kids in high school still” energy into developing our children instead?
And why do we assume that the other end of the parenting spectrum is khakis and mini-vans? There are a thousand shades of different parents and parenting styles in between these so called “cool parents” and what they consider the “sell out” crowd.
If we shed Barney, The Wiggles, and The Backyardigans from our kids’ lives, and instead replace them with 80’s punk rock and the latest music from The Killers, how are we doing our children a favor? Why can’t we let kids just be kids? Isn’t there a possibility that kids raised with an accelerated pop-culture awareness grow up too fast?
While I do enjoy the occasional Green Day song with my son, and we watch a show on the Versus Network about the world’s worst sports injuries together, or even “Pimp My Ride” on MTV, I still carefully watch what he listens to, screen out the sexual and potty mouth content, and let him enjoy songs from the popluar “Naked Brothers Band” television show, which are as innocent, innocuous and childlike as can be, while still hip for the eight year old set.
The need to be my kid’s friend isn’t as great to me as the need to be his father. There is a definite line of demarcation we’re talking about here. Kids don't want a cool parent/friend. They want – and need — a parent, first and foremost. Spending time trying so hard to be cool for me would only take away from coaching baseball, playing with my children, reading to them, heck, generally enjoying them – and letting them enjoy having a father who isn’t trying to be their buddy. To me, that is cooler than any $80 pair of jeans, $100 haircut, or $1,000 alternative CD collection could make me to my kids.
And what kind of message does this send to our children? That being cool is the most important priority? There is an inherent snobbery that comes from placing labels like this on any group of people, or of creating expectations of what is and isn’t “normal,” — especially when it comes to our kids.
What it all boils down to is that there is no one right or wrong way to parent children, no template to follow for success. Parents come in all shapes and sizes, and so do kids. Sure, let’s allow our children the freedom to be who they want to be, but guide them at the same time — and not worry so much about what kind of designer shirt we’re wearing when our infant spits up on it.
And in the same vein, we don’t have to give up our own dreams, ideals, and sense of identity when we have kids, but we do have the responsibility to accept that once we have children, we do become different people, whether we like it or not. These “grupsters” are afraid that their children are changing their identity, when they really should realize that their children are part of their identity, a fact that they should be proud of, rather than ashamed.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
The Today Show ran a story this week about the so called “grupsters.” (Yes, I was watching the Today Show. My wife had it on, okay?)
Anyway, this group of people is supposedly full-fledged grown-ups with jobs in their twenties or thirties, who have families and mortgages, and, nevertheless, “refuse to be lame in the face of responsibility.” The responsibility that these people are afraid will make them “lame” is parenting their children.
They call themselves self-empowered — I say they are just self-indulgent. Their name "grupsters" is derived from hipster, yuppie and "Grups" — a term for grown-ups on a planet ruled by children in a "Star Trek" episode, according to a much-e-mailed New York magazine article last year.
Many of the parents who count themselves as part of this group consider it a "movement.” It sound more like a marketing ploy with the social power of a Hallmark created holiday. Apparently, there are clothing lines and other products designed for the trendy parent and child, and groups who gather to commiserate about how their children are robbing them of their “individuality.”
Grupsters call themselves “parents with street cred” — thirty-somethings who look, talk, act and keep up with trends as if they are still college students. As far as I’m concerned, they are thirty-somethings who pine away for the care free life of their college days, and refuse to grow up.
So, how can you determine if you’re a grupster? Does your daughter wear Dora the Explorer T-shirts or your old concert T-shirts of 80’s bands whose popularity waned a decade before they were born? Are you a Wiggles fan, or do you lull your kids to sleep with the latest Green Day album? Do you ban Barney from the house even if your kids love it? Let’s hear from one of these self proclaimed hip parents:
"Grupsters are parents who look cooler than people who call them grupsters," and that's about it, says Paige Maguire, the 29-year-old co-founder of “Rock N Romp,” a monthly independent music concert for kids and grown-ups. "I'm just parenting and living with my own identity and sharing who I am with my son, instead of wearing khakis and driving a minivan to Gymboree. I didn't have a kid so I could be a different person; I had a kid so I could introduce myself to him and learn who he is."
What? Now we’re introducing ourselves to our kids? How about we actually PARENT out kids? Maybe channel some of that “gosh I wanna be one of the cool kids in high school still” energy into developing our children instead?
And why do we assume that the other end of the parenting spectrum is khakis and mini-vans? There are a thousand shades of different parents and parenting styles in between these so called “cool parents” and what they consider the “sell out” crowd.
If we shed Barney, The Wiggles, and The Backyardigans from our kids’ lives, and instead replace them with 80’s punk rock and the latest music from The Killers, how are we doing our children a favor? Why can’t we let kids just be kids? Isn’t there a possibility that kids raised with an accelerated pop-culture awareness grow up too fast?
While I do enjoy the occasional Green Day song with my son, and we watch a show on the Versus Network about the world’s worst sports injuries together, or even “Pimp My Ride” on MTV, I still carefully watch what he listens to, screen out the sexual and potty mouth content, and let him enjoy songs from the popluar “Naked Brothers Band” television show, which are as innocent, innocuous and childlike as can be, while still hip for the eight year old set.
The need to be my kid’s friend isn’t as great to me as the need to be his father. There is a definite line of demarcation we’re talking about here. Kids don't want a cool parent/friend. They want – and need — a parent, first and foremost. Spending time trying so hard to be cool for me would only take away from coaching baseball, playing with my children, reading to them, heck, generally enjoying them – and letting them enjoy having a father who isn’t trying to be their buddy. To me, that is cooler than any $80 pair of jeans, $100 haircut, or $1,000 alternative CD collection could make me to my kids.
And what kind of message does this send to our children? That being cool is the most important priority? There is an inherent snobbery that comes from placing labels like this on any group of people, or of creating expectations of what is and isn’t “normal,” — especially when it comes to our kids.
What it all boils down to is that there is no one right or wrong way to parent children, no template to follow for success. Parents come in all shapes and sizes, and so do kids. Sure, let’s allow our children the freedom to be who they want to be, but guide them at the same time — and not worry so much about what kind of designer shirt we’re wearing when our infant spits up on it.
And in the same vein, we don’t have to give up our own dreams, ideals, and sense of identity when we have kids, but we do have the responsibility to accept that once we have children, we do become different people, whether we like it or not. These “grupsters” are afraid that their children are changing their identity, when they really should realize that their children are part of their identity, a fact that they should be proud of, rather than ashamed.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Prescribed Burn (MNA April 07)
National Forest Service uses fire to fight fire
By CEAN BURGESON
Associate Editor
To prevent an uncontrollable forest fire, the National Forest Service does exactly what they are trying to prevent – they start a fire. Their goal is to actually burn the fuel that such a fire would feed on. It’s called a “prescribed burn,” or “prescribed fire.”
“We have to wait for the right conditions, the right weather,” says Ramona DeGeorgio-Venegas, who was one of the local Forestry Service personnel who was on hand for a prescribed burn in the Manistee National Forest along Udell Road. Prescribed fires are carefully planned in advance, long before ignition happens. This was the fourth attempt at finding the right conditions for this particular burn.
The temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction, and the projection for rain all were right for the burn which happened last week. Fire is a natural part of many ecosystems on the Huron-Manistee National Forests.
Ecosystems such as jack pine forests evolved with fire. Modern firefighting altered the natural cycle of fire that maintained these valuable habitats. As a result, many plants, birds, and insects have become rare or endangered.
Fuel management is an important part of the forests’ fire program. Fire is used to eliminate “hazardous fuel loads along the ground, especially in the pines and mixed hardwoods,” according to DeGeorgio-Venegas. “There are a lot of leaf litters that are down from last fall.” Presribed fire consumes available fuel, reducing the potential for catastrophic wildfire.
The burn last week was part of a project which has been ongoing for four years. Small chunks of the burn area are set fire as conditions permit. “We did this piece four years ago, and we only burned about 20 acres last fall. It went out and we stopped, so now we’re back today,” said DeGeorgio-Venegas. “There’s a very short window between when we can burn and when we have our fire season.”
The fire is highly controlled, with an assortment of personnel on hand and clear boundary lines to ensure that everything goes according to plan. Besides fire crews, bulldozers are on hand to control fires, and the whole process is monitored via a fire plane circling overhead. The safety of drivers along fire area roads is also taken into account. “We have to try to not have problems with visibility from the fires (and smoke they generate),” says DeGeorgio-Venegas. “Safety is our number one priority, both for the public and for our firefighters.”
Local firefighters for the forest service had help from some of their counterparts from out west with the burn. “Firefighters are from the Huron-Manistee National Forest,” said DeGeorgio-Venegas. “There’s also some from region one out in Montana, as part of the hot-shot crew, and jumper crew. They don’t have fires out west as much until later in the summer. We try to do our prescribed burning before our fire season. So they come out from Missoula.”
According to the Forest Service, fire in the ecosystem is a natural and revitalizing process. This particular one day burn had a goal of accomplishing at least 60 percent of the fuel load. “Then we won’t have to come back,” said DeGeorgio-Venegas.
Cean Burgeson can be reached at: cburgeson@pioneergroup.net
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