Picnicking at Canal Park

Jim
Pluimer
Posted 7/3/03

Saturday, June 15, 1957- We hadn't even made it to the tar when Aunt Shirley started her lecture. "Don't you be driving like a fool now. We've got almost 90 miles to go, so at least get us part way there before you start scaring the wits out of us! And don't get stuck behind any trucks. I can't see where you're supposed to be going." I could see Uncle Al's eyes in the rearview mirror; he gave me a quick wink.

I nodded off after 20 minutes on the road. The next thing I remembered was Shirley getting all excited and saying something about "Duluth."

Entering the city limits of Duluth was a shock to my small-town senses. I had never seen anything so grand in all my life--and it just kept getting better! First it was the houses, then the hills, then the houses on hills, then the harbor, then the houses on the hills overlooking the harbor, then the birds over bridges and bridges over boats and lots of docks and flocks of gulls on hulls of colored boats that tote the ore on Superior. It was WAY too much!

We drove through downtown Duluth until we reached the Canal Park turnoff. There we made a right and continued down the avenue. Just as we pulled into the parking lot I heard a loud, "WAAAAMP-WAAAAMP!" Then a return call, "BAAAAMP-BAAAAMP!"

"Hear that, Jimmy?" Al asked. That's the lift bridge talking to a cargo ship." I jumped out of the car and ran over to the side of the pier to catch the excitement.

"Wow!" I shouted to my uncle and aunt. "This is the neatest thing I've ever seen!"

"WAMP-WAAAAMP," went the bridge.

"BAMP-BAAAAMP," went the ship. The William G. Mather was ready for entry. To my right was the 52-year-old lift bridge, to my left a thirty-two-year-old cargo ship. Everything was in place. The lift bridge suddenly shook like a Mesabi tremor as its giant, steel arms slowly raised.

"Wow!" was all I could say.

Al had finally caught up to me and was taking a little personal joy in my extreme delight. "That there's the William G. Mather. She was built in 1925 and hauled cargo for 16 years. Then she was called into service for the government. Roosevelt said we needed more steel for the war effort and guess who was the first one to make it to Duluth for a load of ore?"

"The William G.?"

"Yup, it was early April. They had to break through the ice."

"Was Mather a real guy?" I asked.

"Yup. Owned an iron company in Cleveland, Ohio. That's about all I know except he was related to the Mathers of Boston. You know, the Pilgrims."

"WAAAAMP!''

"BAAAAMP!,'

A beach-side picnic

After we finished touring the Mariner Museum it was noon and our appetites were worked up. The aerial lift was back down in place again, so we hopped in the car, crossed the bridge and continued east. I was really enjoying this trip.

Shirley spotted a picnic area with a few empty tables and pointed it out to A1. "Let me off here and I'll go claim that one down by the beach," she said. "Jimmy, you bring the lemonade and jackets. A1, you bring the sandwiches."

As the Chevy rolled to a slow stop, Shirley bolted out the door and made a beeline for the beach-side picnic table. A1 and I parked the car, gathered up the goodies and strolled over to the picnic area. When we got there I asked Shirley if I could take my shoes and socks off and get my feet wet. Just as she was about to say "No," A1 cut her off. "Sure, go right ahead," he said. "Just don't get your pants wet!"

My shoes and socks were off in no time as I went lickity split toward the beach.

"A1! How could you?" Shirley scowled.

"Got to learn sometime," he replied.

The second my toes hit the water I let out a shriek. The lift bridge answered in turn. I executed a lightning-quick, blue-vein, tiptoe-turnabout back to dry land and drilled my numb feet into the warm sand. It felt oh, so good, and I felt oh, so dumb.

³Lunch is ready," Shirley called out. I wasn't in any hurry to drag my embarrassed little butt over there, but I did need some fuel.

Our picnic included cherry lemonade, unsquished sandwiches and a big box of Old Dutch potato chips. For dessert we had Shirley's famous caramel rolls. They were jaw-stickin' gooey good!

After lunch we cleaned up the picnic table and went for a "shoes on" stroll down the beach. When it came to maritime history, or anything else, A1 was pretty sharp. His only weakness was that truth emulated fiction and vise versa. His stories blended together like a finely executed Van Gogh forgery.

A Pease connection

"Remember reading about the Pilgrims?" he asked. I wondered what that had to do with Lake Superior, but I let him continue. "They came to America in 1620. One of the fellows on board was named George Soule. Now if you follow his family tree, starting at the trunk of course, and go up to the 10th branch, you'll find a guy named Benjamin Soule. He's the fellow who owned the land where your Grandpa Nick was born."

"You mean in Pease?"

"Yup. Except when your grandpa was born it was called Soule's Siding, after Benjamin Soule. Just before Nick was born they renamed it ŒPease¹².

"What does that have to do with Lake Superior?"

"I guess I got off track a bit, so I'll start with the Pilgrims again. Okay, it was 1620 and the Pilgrims just landed at Plymouth Rock. They built a town and called it 'Plymouth.' This settlement became the first permanent settlement in New England. There were a few before it like Jamestown in 1607, which only lasted three years, and St. Augustine in 1565, but it was sacked and burned a few times. So the history books tell us Plymouth, Massachusetts was the first continuous European settlement in America. Right?"

I looked at Al and shrugged my shoulders. I was still waiting for the lake connection. "Wrong," he said. By this time Shirley had outpaced us and was heading east at two knots, "WAAAAMP!"

"Is the history book wrong?" I asked.

Al stopped and faced the great body of water. "See that lake? Twelve years BEFORE the Pilgrims landed in Plymouth the French were traveling the big waters of Superior in birch-bark canoes. Yup, they were here in 1608, by golly. They even had settlements in northern Minnesota that are still there today."

"Really?"

"It's a fact, Jimmy." I gazed over the massive expanse of freshwater with a new appreciation of the lake and Minnesota's rich, colorful history. "Know what made Duluth famous?" Al asked. Before I could answer, he said, "Skipsfart!" I wondered now if this was all a joke on me, but I laughed anyway because it sounded so funny.

"What did you say?"

"Skipsfart," he repeated. I thought it was even funnier the second time. I almost fell to the ground from laughing!

"Who's Skip?" I asked while trying to compose myself.

"Nobody. Skipfart is the Norwegian word for 'shipping,'" he said with a sharp snap in his voice. I could tell he didn't like me poking fun of his dear old Norsk, but I was in a mood.

I looked up at him and shouted, " You're a skipfart!" Al chased me down the beach until we caught up with Shirley. We had such a great time that day!