I would like to introduce you to Monica Erickson's Grandmother, Carmen Carter ( 06 Jul 1910 - 30 Jan 2000). Carmen has written reminisces and poetry since she was 12 and I would like to take this opportunity to share her work with you. The first reminisce was published in Michigan History Magazine, March/April, 1988. Homesteading in the Upper Peninsula By Carmen Carter - 1980

In 1915 my parents, Ira and Wreatha Dougan, and I lived in a rented house in the country near Grant, in Newaygo County. My dad heard that government land was available for Homesteading in Michigan's Upper Peninsula for those who claimed it. So he set out to find us a new home in the north country. He left Mother and me behind until he could find a place for us to live. He went by train to the small village of Raco, about eighteen miles south of Sault Ste. Marie. There he was met by John Fry, a family friend who had arrived a year earlier, taken out a claim and built a small cabin. Mr. Fry, who lived alone, told Dad that we could come and stay with him until we had a place of our own.

Three weeks later, Mother and I arrived at Raco. We were met by Dad and Mr. Fry, who asked me to call him "Uncle John". We were taken to Uncle John's cabin in the woods where we lived for the next six months. Our claim was about a mile away, and we made a trail through the woods to get to it. Every day Mother and I packed a lunch and delivered it to the men who were working to clear a spot for our cabin. Using axes, they cut and trimmed the jack pine trees, then laid them aside to use in building the cabin. When they had cleared a spot large enough, they built a twenty-four foot square log cabin. The cabin was built around a used kitchen range from the lumber camp at Weller's Siding. The range, which was too large to go through the door, served as cook stove, water heater and heating stove. I soon became homesick for my grandparents, aunts and cousins, whom we had left back at Grant. I looked forward to our trips to Raco, about every two weeks, to get the mail - especially letters from back home. The roads were just two tracks through the sand, and often we had to create our own road as we went along.

That fall, I was old enough to start school, but since the roads were impassable during the winter, I could not go. So Mother taught me at home. Every day I had lessons in reading, writing and arithmetic. Anticipating a harsh winter, we ordered a supply of groceries from Sears Roebuck in the fall. We got flour, sugar, rolled oats, cornmeal, cases of canned milk, five-pound pails of coffee beans and our one treat - a keg of gingersnaps.

With the wild blueberries my mother canned plus venison, rabbit and an occasional side of bacon, purchased from the cook at the lumber camp, we had plenty of food. The winters were long and lonely, and I remember the mournful howling of the timber wolves from the ridge in back of the cabin. The state paid a bounty on wolves and Dad trapped them. He sold the skins to furriers. That was our main source of income during our first winter in the Upper Peninsula. Once or twice each month, Dad walked the three miles to Raco on snowshoes with a large knapsack on his back. There he picked up the mail and any extras we needed.

In 1916, Dad was given a job as foreman at the nearby lumber camp and Mother was hired as the cook's helper. So we lived at the camp. I liked it much better with more people around. There was a lot of activity with a train stopping daily to leave supplies. And the lumbermen were very nice to me. They nicknamed me "The Little Biddie".

One of my first friends was an Indian boy named Archie Clark. We often played together, sliding down the tall sawdust piles covered with snow and ice. I loved the big, warm kitchen where Mother and Maggie, the cook, prepared the meals. They served meals to about thirty lumbermen at long tables along one side of the room. I was especially fond of Maggie, a big good-natured woman, who always found a piece of cake or a cookie for me. One day Dad came home from town with an Edison phonograph and some cylinder records. It had a big horn and had to be wound by hand. We listened to music for the first time in months. I loved the phonograph and played the records over and over. My favorites were "The Holy City" sung by Harvey Lauder, "The Glow Worm" and one called "Redhead".

After World War I began, we moved to Sault Ste. Marie, where Dad took a job as a guard at the Soo Locks. Finally, at the age of eight, I started school. After taking some tests, I was placed in the third grade, which meant that I really had not lost any time when Mother taught me at home. When I was eleven years old we sold the cabin to some people who wanted to turn it into a hunting lodge. We then returned to the southern part of the state of live. That was sixty-five years ago, but I still remember the snowbound winters, the howl of the timber wolves and the old Edison phonograph. And sometimes I wonder what ever became of my friend Archie Clark.

In 1872 my grandparents, William and Laura Dougan, came to Grant from Rock Creek, Ohio, in a covered wagon drawn by a team of horses. It took nearly three weeks to make the trip. The roads were little more than trails, except for some pole roads where they had to pay toll. They brought their ten month old son, George, with them. There were highway robbers around then because it was thought that people who were traveling must have money. So Grandpa slept under the wagon at night with his shotgun near. They arrived at Grant where they were met by Grandma's parents and brothers who had come there a year earlier. So they stayed with them until they found a place of their own.

The lumbering industry was at its peak then. Records show that two and a quarter billion feet of white pine lumber was manufactured in Michigan that year, and fifteen thousand people were employed in the business. Grandpa worked in a shingle mill, but it was not an easy life for them, clearing the land, raising food for their family, cutting wood for the long cold winters, and with everything having to be done by hand.

Indians who lived near them would bring hand made baskets to their house and ask Grandma to trade a piece of salt port for one. She never refused. In 1910 they built a new home on eighty acres of land they had cleared three miles west of Grant. That is the year I was born. Eleven months later my mother died and because my father was a railroad man and away much of the time, I went to live with my grandparents.

By that time only one of their nine children still lived at home. That was my Aunt Lillian, who was fourteen, so she and Grandma took care of me. Grandpa raised and trained horses to sell because then all farming was done with horses. We traveled either by a surrey drawn by a team of horses or a single horse drawn carriage. Aunt Lillian had her own rig, a single buggy, as they were called, and a brown mare named Fanny. I loved to ride with her. We would hitch Fanny to the buggy and drive the three miles to Grant and put Fanny in the livery stable where she was watered and fed all day for 25 cents. We would visit my other aunt, Daisy Shippy, do our shopping at the combined grocery and dry goods store, then stop at the drug store soda fountain for a glass of root beer before going home. Fanny knew the way and would go straight home and turn into our driveway without us having to say a word to her.

Later my Uncle Glenn bought a 1917 Model T Ford and then we could drive to Grant on Wednesday evening and listen to the hometown band concert in the park and at dark watch a free movie. Before driving home we each got a big 5 cent ice cream cone which lasted all the way home. When I was fifteen I went to work at the telephone office in Grant. I was fascinated by the switchboard so I was soon a "telephone girl" (as we were called then). I earned $5 a week at first then got a raise to $6 . I thought I was rich.

At night we could pull down a folding bed, turn on the night bell, and go to sleep. If the bell rang in the night we knew that someone needed the doctor or the veterinarian. At that time if the doctor was going out on a call he would always let us know where he could be reached. Grant has grown from a small crossroads with only a very few people to a thriving farm community of over seven hundred and is now known as the Onion Capital of Michigan.

The depot where trains once stopped to load logs in lumbering days is now a restaurant where we can relax in an atmosphere of bygone days as we enjoy a delicious meal with old friends and new.