Detroit is a maritime city, even though that eponymous motor and the interstates it compelled us to build have eclipsed this truth somewhat. Cadillac paddled here, Lewis Cass liked to read selections from his scholarly library in his canoe, and when the Erie Canal opened, Yankee settlers arrived in Detroit by — well, the boatload.

And our Boat Club is the oldest in the country.

Source

“When Monsieur de la Mothe Cadillac founded his post on the Detroit River some two hundred years ago he wrote to his superior that he had found the Gateway to the West. Now one can sit on the veranda of the Detroit Boat Club House and watch an endless stream of commerce passing through the channel, and he knows Cadillac was right. That is one of the charms of the place.”

— Leonidas Hubbard Jr, “Paddling your Own Canoe,” Outing (1904)

On February 18, 1839, some society types who enjoyed the sport of boating started a club, a place where they could store some boats and a change of clothes. (Founding members included a smattering of Brushes, Campaus, Farnsworths and Ten Eycks. Also Alpheus Starkey Williams.) The club had a slip at the foot of Randolph Street and one boat — the Georgiana.

“When the house was built more men wanted to join, and then men became canoeists just to get the privileges of the organization.”

— Leonard Hubbard Jr.

Source

It’s not the same building now, obviously; a familiar  fate of its time, the slip on Randolph Street burned in 1848, destroying all boats but the Wolverine. In 1889, the Boat Club moved to Belle Isle — to a building that burned in 1893, then to another building that burned in 1901. The present structure, a crumbling concrete beauty at the foot of the Belle Isle Bridge, dates to 1902. It is fireproof.

“In those early days the club was largely a social organization and barge parties were extremely popular. One of the features at this time was a stunning uniform adopted by the members. It consisted of a chip sailor hat covered with white linen and broad black band; sailor pantaloons of white duck with black belts around the waist; shoes with low sewed heels, and white socks; black silk handkerchief knot; blue shirts with white figure and broad square collar; coat of Kentucky jean. Garbed in this natty uniform the young sailors were wont to take the barges up the river on balmy, moonlight nights, the foremost young ladies of Detroit’s society by their sides, sending the craft steadily and swiftly along under the impulse of their strong, regular stroke.”

— General Friend Palmer, Early Days in Detroit

The fate of the Detroit Boat Club building is uncertain. The Boat Club itself has moved on; the building (owned by the city) is still occupied by crew teams and Friends of Detroit Rowing, but it needs a ton of love and money.

“In the early ’80s the taste for rowing subsided, and indoor gymnastics, baseball, and field sports took its place. The Detroit Athletic Club, which was organized in 1880, was the leader in the new direction. … The Detroit YMCA and Mutual Boat Clubs are now the only rowing clubs in Detroit. Walkerville, Ont., opposite Detroit, and Wyandotte and Ecorse, below Detroit … have also clubs, and these six are the only organized rowing clubs on the Detroit River, where twenty years ago there were about fifteen.”

-  Robert B. Ross, George B. Catlin, Landmarks of Detroit,  1898

“And sometimes you are sick because you cannot leave the canal and, maybe, the parasol, and instead of the cushions throw into your craft a tarpaulin and bag of grub and turn northward over Cadillac’s route. And you dream of islands and camp fires and the smell of hemlock and the ripple of waves at night; but through it all you know that this is a whole lot better than the city gymnasium or the park; you were complaining out of that strange trait of human nature which makes us all want more and more of any good things which Providence sends us.”

— Leonidas Hubbard

Source

Source

You’re all aware that the Belle Isle Aquarium will be open tomorrow, right? And full of fish? Including a 4-foot shark?

This gem closed during the Kwame administration, but it’s been fighting for a revival ever since, with the help of an active Friends group (now part of the long-awaited Belle Isle Conservancy), a corps of dedicated volunteers and grants for repairs. (You’ll want to visit HistoricDetroit.org for a complete history.)

We hope to see a permanently-open Belle Isle Aquarium return soon. But for now, enjoy the rare (and free!) chance to visit this Saturday at Shiver on the River. Even if it’s not that shivery.

The NPR show Tell Me More came to Detroit this week, and I really recommend listening to this segment with Tiya Miles, a University of Michigan Professor and 2011 McArthur “Genius” Fellowship awardee. Miles researches slavery in the Michigan Territory (yes, it existed) and the relationships between local Indians (both slaves and slaveholders) and black slaves in the region. In less than 10 minutes you’ll learn about the impact of Detroit’s mercantile history on the slave trade, how slavery worked in Native American culture, the shifts that happened under French, British and ultimately American rule, and the way so much of our history remains un- or under-explored.

Finally, I was invited to participate in Detroit Performs, a project of Detroit Public Television and WRCJ 90.9 FM (my personal favorite station for classical music and the charming radio DJs who love it!) — if you’ve ever wanted to see what it’s like to follow me around in Elmwood and all around town on an especially awkward day, now’s your chance! Watch here.

Or right here.

Happy weekend,

THE NIGHT TRAIN

We were looking forward to a few days of sunshine, alligators, and paperbacks by the pool, but when we arrived at the airport in Fort Myers, we were greeted by blown-up photographs of Henry Ford and Thomas Edison, just palling around in super-size next to the Chili’s. In the atrium we found a Model T flanked by a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Henry Ford.

Momentarily it was a little horrifying. Where were we? Had we come so far, only to be followed by the challenging inheritance of our beleaguered city?

Edison and Ford in Fort Myers, 1916. The guy with the beard is naturalist John Burroughs. Source.

We came to our senses. There had to be a good reason for these guys to be hanging out at the airport together like it’s no big deal, branding Fort Myers with their portraits of industry, friendship, and snowbirding.

There was only one option: A history tour.

In 1885, Edison bought some land between an old cattle trail and the banks of the Caloosahatchee River in the yet-unincorporated town of Fort Myers.  He built a pier to have raw materials for his house delivered.

The population in Fort Myers was about 350. For 11 years there would be no electricity there. But when power, telephone service, hotels and railroads come to town during the turn of the century, an outpost supported by the cattle trade turned to the more refined business of fishing and summering.

Thomas Edison brought exotic plants to his estate: prehistoric cycads, cinnamon trees and persimmons from China, stately royal palms shipped in from Cuba which now define the landscape of Ft. Myers.

Oh, yeah. There’s also this banyan tree. When Harvey Firestone gave it to Thomas Edison in 1925, it was four feet tall. Today, it’s the largest in the continental U.S., and covers over an acre of land.

Edison conducted botanical research in Fort Myers — he was seeking an efficient, quick-growing latex crop that would solve an impending cost-of-rubber crisis — along with his regular-old experiments and inventions, which he practiced in a laboratory that is no longer there. You know why? Because it’s in DEARBORN! (Of course.) Henry Ford had it relocated in 1928.

(Ford: “Hey bud, I’m taking this building. For my museum.” Edison: “Whatever.”)

via The Henry Ford. Source.

Here’s Edison in that laboratory (inspecting the dynamo) at the grand opening of Greenfield Village.

The Edison summer house — ”Seminole Lodge” — is a place I would be happy to spend a summer, or the rest of my life. The walls are white, the air smells like old wood and the sea, and every room opens a set of French doors to the wrap-around porch.

Lest you think our grandfather genius was all work and no play, Edison found time away from conducting experiments on the latex properties of exotic plants to spend with his family, fishing, canoeing, swimming, camping in the Everglades and hanging out on the beach.

THIS dynamo, Edison’s daughter Madeleine …

… penned some “rules of the house:”

If you don’t think Seminole Lodge is the loveliest spot you ever wore your rubbers in — don’t let on to Father.

Don’t cabbage unto yourself all the fish poles. This has been done by guests thereby incurring the grave disapproval of the entire family.

Don’t fail to retire to your room during part of each day — so that the family may squabble without embarrassment.

And don’t capsize the sailboat if you can help it.

In 1916, Henry Ford bought the estate next door. Buddies! His summer home, christened “The Mangoes,” is darker and less breezy than Seminole Lodge. (To me, it actually looks a little more like a lodge.)

via the Edison & Ford Winter Estates 

But it has one thing to recommend it: Ford had benches built under the windowsills, because he was fond of shoving aside all of the furniture and turning the living room into a dance hall. He wanted a place for the wallflowers to hang out where they wouldn’t be in the way. And I think that was very thoughtful of him.

I’m glad we visited the winter estates, if only to be reminded that the history of Detroit isn’t pinned to the map: it spans tremendous distances, from this cold corner of our friendly peninsula to the extreme southern coast of the continental U.S., and to every city that ever had a Ford factory in it. (Not to mention: St. Nicolas de la Grave, France, where Antoine Cadillac was born; Radnor, Pennsylvania, where Mad Anthony Wayne is buried; London, England, where Hazen Pingree died; Niagara Falls, where Hugh Brady fought in the bloody battle of Lundy’s Lane. We could play this game all day. Also, I need to travel more.)

And because the estates and their eccentric collection of botanical marvels are beautiful, the Caloosahatchee River is beautiful, Florida in general is beautiful, and because even though I don’t like the thought of problematic Henry Ford following me around, it was kind of nice to see a familiar face.

Here is the post I always share on this occasion, although of course you will note I wrote it in 2010. Capitol Park has since been redeveloped; Stevens T. Mason has been peacefully re-interred (after a brief scare over his missing remains).

Other items you may enjoy:

The story of how Michigan’s founding documents became part of the state archives

I love this Michigan centennial stamp — it commemorates the 1835 ratification of our constitution and the opening shots in our battle for statehood rather than the official (and less exciting) admission to the Union in 1837. Via michigan.gov:

How about a 175th anniversary chocolate cake? (Props to Vintage Mitten for posting a similar recipe on Facebook)

And this Message of the Acting Governor, Stevens T. Mason, to the Legislative Council, August 17, 1835 — in the heat of the war with Ohio, and right before Jackson had Mason removed — is worthy browsing for today.

How is the observance of Michigan to be compelled by the United States? Is it at the point of a bayonet? I can see no other course.

Happy birthday, beautiful Michigan!

About Wednesday Night Sessions:

Wednesday Night Sessions is a monthly reading series based in Farmington, Michigan, that features talented local authors and poets.  The series is sponsored by five Michigan-based publishers: Absinthe: New European Writing, Black Coffee Press, The Collagist, Dzanc Books and Midwestern Gothic.

Meet me at Mentobe Cafe on Grand River at 7:00 p.m for fancy literary fun!

See you there,

- THE NIGHT TRAIN

As you might guess, my talks tend to deal strictly with ye olde Detroit. But at this event I wanted to make sure I was at least a little relevant to Milwaukee. My grasp on Milwaukee history is pretty tenuous (I left town before becoming insufferable), so it was tough and involved more research than I was prepared for. I think I pulled it off with a little fawning over Solomon Juneau, Milwaukee’s French-Canadian fur-trader founder (his last house still stands in Theresa, Wisconsin), and no small quantity of yammering about the years during which Wisconsin and Michigan were part of the same territory. (Milwaukee and Detroit were even tossed together in Wayne County for a few years in the 1790s.)

Luckily, I always overestimate how nerdy other people are; I can’t imagine anyone in the audience was bored by things they already knew about territorial boundaries and original Juneautown land plats of the 1820s.

At the very last minute, I had the stroke of brilliance to check the index of Early Days in Detroit for a reference to Milwaukee. I wasn’t expecting much, but I got REALLY lucky.

General Friend Palmer spends a couple of chapters reminiscing about the day when Great Lakes steamboat captains were kings, regally strolling the streets of old Detroit in nankeen trousers, beaver top-hats and silk cravats. Maybe something like this?

Oh yes.

But Captain Chelsea Blake wasn’t like this. He was rude and he loved to swear. General Palmer wrote that ”unlike most of the lake captains of those days, who were perfect gentlemen in manners and dress, he affected none of these, no courtly phrases, no ruffled shirt, no blue coat with brass buttons … his use or abuse of the king’s English was somewhat phenomenal.”

He fought in the War of 1812 at Lundy’s Lane and thereafter became a titan of Great Lakes shipping. Though he was never afraid to cuss out a superior or fight Indians, Blake was apparently terrified of dying.

”Blake … stood in mortal fear of death and from the cholera in particular. He went to Milwaukee to escape the latter, but unfortunately he did not.”

Captain Chelsea Blake died from cholera in Milwaukee in 1849.

From a flowery elegy by R. E. Roberts:

Of almost giant size and commanding presence, no son of Neptune ever united in his composition a rarer combination of the qualities which make a true seaman, a safe commander, a genuine hero. Rough as the billows whose impotent assaults on his vessel he ever laughed to scorn; with voice as hoarse as the tempest which he delighted to rule, this gallant son of the sea had withal a woman’s tenderness of heart to answer the appeals of distress. Sincere was the grief of many he had relieved, and universal regret among those who had ever sailed with him, when he fell a victim to the cholera at Milwaukee in the year 1849.

Poor Chelsea Blake!

Ho, all ye travelers West;
If ye are bound across the Lake,
And wish to take the boat that’s best,
Go on the Illinois with Blake.

A veteran, both by land and sea,
He long has braved the stormy main;
And amongst the foremost, too, was he,
In the great fight at Lundy’s Lane.

… Success attend your bonny boat,
The pride and glory of the lake;
And may ye both forever float —
The Illinois and Captain Blake.

From the Milwaukee Commercial Herald, 1843.

Then I thought, Maybe it is OK that I no longer have a pie and beer habit. A beer habit on its own is more than enough.

This morning, though, just for old time’s sake, I had pie and a beer (New Holland Oatmeal Stout — from MICHIGAN!)

It still feels strange to be hosting an out-of-town book event, since my book is so specifically about, you know, one specific town. So I have been over-explaining myself. (“Wisconsin and Michigan! Part of the same Territory! Had some of the same Governors! Great Lakes fur trade and so on!”) When ThirdCoast Digest (I used to be their senior editor) asked me to write a short preview of my party, I turned in a 1300-word historical essay/love letter.

I’ve shared my affection for Captain Frederick Pabst before. What I forgot about — until I woke up in the middle of the night and remembered it — was that Captain Pabst, in his sea-captain days, crossed paths with another captain — Detroit shipping king and mega-millionaire industrialist Eber Brock Ward.

Captain Pabst was a real captain. In 1848, at age 12, he moved from Germany to Milwaukee. Striking out here, the family moved to Chicago, where Frederick’s mother died from cholera. Frederick Pabst had to find work. After odd jobs at hotels and restaurants, he landed (no pun intended) as a cabin boy on a Great Lakes steamer.

It was his job to collect tickets from passengers as they disembarked the ship. One day, the story goes, a passenger claiming to be a certain Captain E. B. Ward tried to leave the ship without handing over a ticket. Frederick Pabst stopped him. Captain Ward protested on the basis that he owned the ship. Pabst made him go back to his cabin and wait until his identity could be confirmed. Ward was impressed, not disgruntled. (OK, maybe he was also disgruntled. But hopefully just a little.) Pabst had composure. He showed some pluck. Some resolve.

Captain Ward knew something about that. Born in Canada in 1811, Eber Brock Ward came to Detroit with his family in 1821. The frontier port town was muddy, provincial, and had yet to recover from a devastating 1805 fire. Just a few rickety boats, mostly British-owned, plied the Great Lakes, and whenever one of them sailed into Detroit’s harbor — announcing her arrival with a booming report of the cannon — the entire town wandered to the river to watch.

You can read the whole essay here.

Detroit and Milwaukee: Meant to be!

(Who am I kidding? They’ll be there for the dance party.)

Oh my gosh, how great is this poster? My friend dwellephant made it. You should send him $5 immediately. (Or maybe you need some love letters? Valentine’s Day!)

See you (if you live near Milwaukee) at the Sugar Maple! (More details on Facebook.) We’re going to shake it Gabriel Richard in wooden shoes after a few glasses of wine he bought from Joseph Campau.

This is the best time of year. For two days our house has been a hush of hot coffee, dog naps, books, and spare hours spent exploring world mysteries / magazines / new creative chances / evening cocktails. Today it is snowing, one of the first honest snows in a so-far mild winter. It is a humble time, even solemn, but wide-open: full of thanks for the year as we knew it and awe at the approaching cross we are all about to make over time.

That’s especially true at the end of this year, which was the biggest year of my life: just a wedding, or just a book, would have made it so. But I was so lucky, I did both. And both taught me a ton about making decisions, taking chances, asking for help, saying no, saying yes, speaking up for myself, being more open-minded, and good old-fashioned getting shit done.

Submitted for your perusal: This gallery of things I saw, places I visited, acquaintances I made and stories I learned in 2011. I hope you like it! And I hope your year was just as good, and that your 2012 will be even better.

Happy New Year,

The Night Train

Further reading:

Margaret Mather

Jean-Francois Hamtramck

St. Louis Cemetery No. 1

Le Loup Garou

Marshall Fredericks Sculpture Museum

Pride of Baltimore

The old Log Cabin

Dogs in early Detroit

Last year: Solomon Sibley, and a brave New Year 

The first time I realized that I loved Christmas — as an adult — was in a grocery store in Milwaukee. It had been a tough year, full of loss and heartache, too much drinking, a persistently empty checking account, nagging aimlessness. It wasn’t long after Thanksgiving. I was probably buying noodles, eggs, and cabbage — all I ate. The store had put up a red ribbon-decked tree and there were loose cranberries for sale in big bins. It smacked me in the heart like a cinnamon-scented hammer: I cannot goddamn wait for Christmas. And I guess it had nothing to do with the holiday itself: it just meant that I could go home, turn off my phone, and hunker down at my parents’ house for a few days, safe in a harbor of blankets, dogs, movies I’d watched a thousand times, and the soft smell of sauteed onions.

Since then, I have loved Christmas mightily, in all of its sentimental glory, and it has only been better since I started spending it with Scott: more family, more love, more wine, more crab legs, more card games, and the extra thrill of midnight mass, the only time during the regular calendar year that I set aside for my secret spiritual feelings, and during which I inevitably sob my face off for ineffable reasons.

This year, though — despite the fact that it has been a very big year, and I am more than ready for a long break — I can’t muster the same wonder. Midnight mass is cancelled. My parents just moved to Florida. We will still play cards and eat crab legs, and I am sure by night’s end I will be passed out on the couch at Ciocia’s house, drunk with awe and love and Jezy. But now, just a few day’s out, I am feeling unmoved. Maybe I’m just tired? Maybe it’s just too balmy?

So it was beautiful to find this letter from William Woodbridge to his daughter Juliana. Woodbridge was living in Washington, serving his first term as U.S. Senator from Michigan, and spending his first Christmas away from his family. His daughter was my age, living with her husband, Henry Backus, in Detroit.  His melancholy – resigned to Providence – reminds us that Christmas is sometimes best defined in our hearts by what it is not.

Washington, January 5, 1842

My dear Daughter,

Your welcome letter of the 10th ult. reached me in due time. I read with much interest your remarks on the altered state of things you anticipated when you thought of the then approaching Christmas. Contrasted with such as are past, rarely, indeed if ever, has it happened that a Christmas has gone by without seeing us all together; and there is something grave in the thought that at length, and for the first time, that day of customary hilarity should be decreed to pass by in the absence of one who loves you, and loves you all I do. But it is perhaps better as it is; better that we all should learn by degrees and with contented, though subdued feelings to submit ourselves to the decrees of Providence. Though the day was not untinged by melancholy to me, yet it passed, amidst the bustle of ”carding and being carded” and all that with sober and unruffled quiet. With you at home, it fared I trust a little better.  My last letter was from L., and on ”Christmas Eve.” The stockings had with all due formality been hung up, and you and W. and B. were to have added to the cheerfulness of the occasion by joining in the Christmas dinner. This is as it should be, and many times and often may ”Merry Christmas” occur to all who at that table met.

I hope your holidays are full of joy, whatever they are, wherever you are, and whomever you are with. I will be taking a break from the blog, but hope to check in at least once before the end of 2011 and will return to regular posts by early January, having had some time to rest, clear my head, and read lots of dorky old books.

Cheers,

The Night Train

Other posts about Christmas from last year and the previous year and here is Santa wishing all of Detroit a good night.