Whether you celebrate Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Pancha Ganapati, Seinfeld's Festivus for the Rest of Us, or some other winter observance, this is a festive time of year. The lights, the sparkle, the special treats, the gatherings with people you love (or try to) all combine to brighten the season. Now that I think about it, this whole year has been pretty festive. Sure, it's also been stressful in a lot of ways, but there's been a lot to celebrate and plenty of events centered around celebration. Though we didn't set out with this goal in mind, Ray and I ended up attending a record number of festivals this year, from the Baby Food Festival in Fremont to the Blueberry Festival in South Haven. I've taken HeartWood readers along to some of these events, but looking back over the year, I realized there were several I hadn't shared with you. So take a break from the holiday bustle and join me as we hit the highlights. National Blueberry Festival, South HavenNewaygo Logging FestivalMuskegon Polish FestivalNewaygo Christmas Walk
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The 2017 National Book Awards were announced last week, and while I'm always interested in checking out the winners and finalists for additions to my To-Read list, I paid more attention than usual this year. That's because I was rooting for one particular book on the nonfiction finalist list: David Grann's Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI. Although Grann's book didn't win in its category, its selection as one of five finalists speaks to the story's significance and the skill with which Grann researched and wrote it. That's reason enough to take note, but there was also this: Killers of the Flower Moon is the book everyone was talking about on our recent visit to Oklahoma. Cousins, classmates, complete strangers—all had read or were reading or were about to read the book and wanted to talk about it. Having just read it ourselves, and still feeling stunned by the story, Ray and I wanted to talk about it, too. In fact, we wanted to do more than talk, so while in Oklahoma, we made a pilgrimage of sorts to Pawhuska, the town where many of the events described in the book took place. More about that in a moment. To bring you up to speed if you haven't read the book, it's the true story of a series of murders of wealthy members of the Osage tribe in the 1920s. Forced onto seemingly worthless land in northern Oklahoma, the Osage had the foresight to secure collective mineral rights to the property, which turned out to be rife with high-quality oil deposits. By leasing the drilling rights to oil companies, the Osage made a fortune—more than $30 million in 1923 alone. (That's the equivalent of more than $400 million today.) At the time, the Osage were, per capita, the richest people in the world. They built mansions, owned fancy cars, sent their children to prestigious schools—and attracted the attention of schemers intent on separating them from their money by any means necessary, including mercenary marriage and murder. Whole families turned up dead from mysterious illnesses, secretive shootings and suspicious fires, as did investigators sent to look into the killings. With more than two dozen people murdered between 1920 and 1924, the killing spree became known as the Osage Reign of Terror. Eventually, agents from the newly reorganized Federal Bureau of Investigation solved the murders. Grann details that investigation and its devastating revelations, then—with the help of Osage Nation members he met while researching the book—goes on to unearth a deeper conspiracy. As Dave Eggers wrote in his New York Times review of the book, "Among the towering thefts and crimes visited upon the native peoples of the continent, what was done to the Osage must rank among the most depraved and ignoble." Growing up in Oklahoma, I heard stories—both official and personal—about injustices and atrocities committed against indigenous people. In Oklahoma History classes, we learned about the Trail of Tears (as well as the accomplishments of such leaders as Sequoyah and Quanah Parker). Yet I never heard or read a thing about the Osage murders, though Pawhuska is only 80 miles from my hometown. Apparently, neither did most Oklahomans—including some you might think would have been well aware. At the Osage Nation Museum in Pawhuska, I overheard a conversation between another visitor and guest services representative Pauline Allred, an 87-year-old Osage/Ponca woman. "I guess you grew up hearing about the murders," the visitor said. "No," Ms. Allred replied. "We knew something had happened, but no one would say what had happened." Today, the horrific story is no longer kept quiet; copies of Grann's book are prominently displayed in the window of The Water Bird Gallery in downtown Pawhuska. A monument on a nearby hilltop marks the spot where the Million Dollar Elm once stood. In the shade of that tree, auctions for oil and gas leases were held in the 1920s, with such notable oilmen as J. Paul Getty, Harry Sinclair and Frank Phillips bidding the big bucks that brought prosperity—and eventually tragedy—to the Osage Nation. Steps away from the Million Dollar Elm monument, exhibits in the Osage Nation Museum document that awful chapter, but place it in the context of a long history and rich culture. When we visited, the museum was preparing to open an exhibit by renowned Osage artist and activist Gina Gray, whose distinctive style blends traditional images with contemporary style. The nearby Osage Nation Cultural Center offers classes in traditional skills such as fingerweaving, moccasin-making, beadwork and ribbonwork, and the Nation's language department is actively engaged in revitalizing the Osage language through classroom and online courses. Encouraging signs of the Nation's resilience. Yet we also saw signs that controversy continues today, once again involving energy production. Approaching Pawhuska from the west, we drove through a vast wind farm. In town, we saw placards reading "NO TURBINES." We learned that the Osage Nation has been fighting wind development in the area for years, asserting that the enormous turbines—located on privately-owned ranches to which the Osage still retain mineral rights—are a "scenic blight" on the prairie landscape, and that the wind developments could disturb graves and archaeological sites. "They're eating up the landscape," said one Osage man quoted in a 2015 Tulsa World article. "They're devouring our history and culture." Several years ago, the federal government, acting on behalf of the Osage Nation, sued the wind farm developers, arguing that the construction process interfered with the Nation's mineral rights. Turbine construction involves digging a large pit for the foundation, crushing the underlying rock and using the crushed rocks as structural support. Though not a typical mining operation, the removal and altering of rocks does constitute mining, government lawyers maintained, and should not be done without obtaining mineral permits from the Osage Nation. The initial court ruling came down in favor of the wind developers. But the Osage Mineral Council appealed, and while we were in Oklahoma, the original decision was reversed. For the wind farm already in operation, the developers must negotiate a new lease with the Osage Nation, and any future developments must have the Nation's consent. How the situation will play out remains to be seen, but whatever the outcome, it will be one more chapter in the compelling story of the Osage of Oklahoma.
You were all such excellent traveling companions last week, I've decided to invite you along on another excursion. Bring some snacks, settle in, buckle up, and off we go . . . ! First, a bit of whimsy to get us all in good spirits: Next, we brake for wildlife: Now, a detour down Memory Lane for some Route 66 nostalgia: Can't visit farm and ranch country without seeing a few of these icons . . . . . . and admiring some metal-smithing artistry. Time to wrap up this tour with a little local color: Every good trip ends with a peaceful sunset. Here you go:
I've made this point before, but it bears repeating: No matter how alluring your destination, the stops along the way are often just as memorable. That held true on our recent travels. In between our longer stays in Stillwater, Albuquerque and Memphis (yes, we covered a lot of ground!), we found fascinating diversions in such places as Elk City, Oklahoma; Tucumcari, New Mexico; and Fort Smith, Arkansas. More about those discoveries another day; today we're visiting a couple of places that are even farther off the beaten path. We happened upon the first while trying to find our way to Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument, southeast of Albuquerque. Even with a GPS, it's a confusing undertaking, because the monument comprises three separate sites: Quarai, Abó, and Gran Quivira. It helps to get your bearings at the visitor center in Mountainair. After driving so long we were sure we must have missed a turn somewhere, we finally arrived at Mountainair. I figured we'd buzz through the visitor center, pick up maps and move on. But a glance around town convinced me to linger a bit longer. Though the business district is only a few blocks long, Mountainair is clearly a haven for creative souls. Mosaics and murals decorate walls and fences; sculptures stand in parking lots and protrude from building fronts. I was particularly taken with one mosaic installation, Reptile Rendezvous, in front of the national monument's visitor center. Created by artists Samantha Baumgartner, Rebecca Anthony and Tomás Wolff, the piece features a larger-than-life snake stretched across the top of a curvy, concrete bench, with smaller ceramic lizards scattered about. Sunflowers show up in a number of murals around town, a nod to Mountainair's annual Sunflower Festival. With a juried art show, live music (this year by groups including the Folk City Hipsters and Nervous Nation) and a sunflower hat contest, it sounds like a can't-miss event. Unfortunately, we did miss it, by a couple of weeks. But we weren't too late for lunch, and we were ready for a refreshment break by the time we finished looking around town. We found just our kind of place: Alpine Alley Coffee Shop. The friendly folks, outstanding food and artsy, eclectic décor reminded us of our hometown hangout, Hit the Road Joe Coffee Café. The next day, we found another treasure along New Mexico's Turquoise Trail. You may already have read my account of visiting Leroy Gonzales in Golden, but there was more up ahead in Madrid. Though a bit more touristy than Mountainair, Madrid still has a funky, handcrafted feel. I especially loved the colorfully decorated mailboxes that lined the road. Ray especially loved Maggie's, the movie set diner where scenes from the 2007 comedy "Wild Hogs" were shot. The building is a gift shop now (Wild Hogs t-shirts anyone?), and the haughty woman selling souvenirs the day we visited was no Marisa Tomei. Still, it was a kick to see the place—and the Wild Hogs Adopt-a-Highway sign on the way out of town. One of the most memorable highway highlights wasn't a sight at all, but a sound. Just west of Tierjas, New Mexico, we detoured off I-40 to travel over the Singing Road. On this short stretch of old Route 66, rumble strips are configured to play "America the Beautiful," but only if you drive over them at exactly the speed limit, 45 miles per hour. Having traveled through quite a few amber waves of grain, admiring purple mountain majesties and fruited plains, we felt like singing along. But before we knew it, the rumble strips had run out, the road was back to humming its usual monotone and we were off to see what other surprises the highway had in store.
I had barely stepped out of the truck when . . . "GOOD MORNING!" The voice filled me with warmth on that damp morning when I'd stopped for a better look at an unusual roadside assemblage along New Mexico's Turquoise Trail, between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. "Come on in! Take all the pictures you want." The man with the welcoming voice emerged from behind a rustic fence of planks and crooked tree limbs, decorated with railroad spikes, old tires, metal barrels, cast-off toys and colorful bottles and jars.
From there, he hustled me over to the "gold mine," a mirror-backed tunnel that Leroy winkingly told me extends all the way to the Ortiz Mountains in the distance. Then a stop at the cantina, another trompe l'oeil façade of corrugated metal and cow skulls. When he invited me to step inside a small structure behind the cantina, I didn't hesitate, even before he assured me, "Don't worry, it's perfectly safe." Inside, the walls were covered with tacked-up notes that previous visitors had left in the spiral-bound guestbook Leroy keeps on a table out front. I read a few, then he showed me a plastic storage tub filled with more notes and letters and a collection of photos visitors have taken of him and his surroundings. "Stay as long as you want," Leroy said as he headed off to tend to his creations. "Just let me know when you're leaving." By the time we said goodbye—me with a bunch of photos in my camera, Leroy with a few bucks I left in the tip jar, along with my promise to send him some pictures—I was in high spirits. In just a short visit, this man whose main mission in life seems to be welcoming people into his world, had cast a colorful light on my day. I hope I carried some of that color and sparkle away with me.
With its towering forests, refreshing rivers and glittering lakes, the part of Michigan where we live might be the last place you'd expect to find patches of prairie. But find them you will, if you know where to look. One fine swath, only a 15-minute drive from our house, is the Michigan Nature Association's Newaygo Prairie Nature Sanctuary. I visited the site last Saturday with a group from the River City Wild Ones native plant organization. Led by Michigan Nature Association regional stewardship organizer John Bagley, we poked around the prairie for a couple of hours, admiring such late-summer bloomers as rough blazing star (Liatris aspera), gray goldenrod (Solidago nemoralis), fern-leaf false foxglove (Aureolaria pedicularia), prairie sunflower (Helianthus petiolaris) and cylindrical blazing star (Liatris cylindracea). High overhead, nighthawks circled. Lovely to watch, but we also had to keep an eye on the ground to look out for prickly pear cactus (yes, cactus in Michigan!) and northern dewberry, also known as untie-your-shoe berry, for its habit of tangling around walkers' feet. John told us that the Michigan Nature Association purchased the 110-acre sanctuary in 1969. Prairies are considered endangered habitats in Michigan because so much open acreage was converted to farmland in the 19th and 20th centuries. But Newaygo County's hilly topography and sandy soils thwarted agriculture in some areas. Prescribed burns and removal of invasive plants, such as the noxious spotted knapweed, have helped keep the sanctuary in something close to its original state. "There's no place else in Michigan where you can find this quality of prairie," John said. "What makes it different is the diversity of plants—not only grasses but also forbs." (Forbs are herbaceous flowering plants that are not grasses.) Like all MNA sanctuaries, Newaygo Prairie depends heavily on volunteer help. John is "exceptionally good at involving local people in local sanctuaries," said Patricia Pennell, a founding member of River City Wild Ones and steward of another MNA sanctuary. Conservation and community: a winning combination, if you ask me. A few more words about MNA before we venture any farther on our prairie ramble. Founded sixty-five years ago, the nonprofit organization was originally a bird-study group. But as environmental issues became a pressing concern throughout the state, MNA segued into education, converting a house trailer into a nature museum and towing it around to schools. Before long, members realized they needed to do more, and the group began purchasing sensitive property to set aside as sanctuaries. Today, the organization maintains more than 170 sanctuaries throughout the state. Newaygo Prairie—one of MNA's oldest sanctuaries—harbors more than a hundred plant species, as well as birds, insects and other animals that depend on those plants for food and shelter. On our walk, I saw several kinds of plants I'd not seen elsewhere, and I picked up some fascinating info-bits to stash in my natural history memory bank. For example:
One highlight of the morning's walk was meeting "Ranger Steve" Mueller. Steve's business card describes him as "Naturalist – Photographer – Butterfly Chaser," and while that probably doesn't cover it all, it's a fair sum-up for a guy who spearheads annual butterfly counts, writes a nature column for local newspapers, operates his own nature sanctuary, and seems to know a heck of a lot about all manner of flora and fauna. I hope to visit Steve's sanctuary near Cedar Springs sometime soon. Stay tuned for that excursion. Is there a little-known nature preserve or wildlife sanctuary near you? What makes it special?
This week, I'm taking time out to look back at some of this season's sweetest moments. It's been a beautiful summer so far, and outings and festivals have added to the enjoyment. But even when I've stayed on my own back porch or sat for a spell in the front yard, I've found plenty to appreciate. I hope you'll enjoy these sights as much as I have.
In winter, our outings are mostly mission-driven: venturing out to the store to stock up on groceries, returning books to the library, braving the elements to go to yoga practice or to a monthly writers' group meeting. Summer, on the other hand, is a time for aimless wandering. Lately, we've been taking drives through the countryside with no particular destination in mind—sometimes only for an hour or two, other times for a whole day. A couple of Sundays ago, we headed out with the vague intention of ending up somewhere around Pentwater, a lovely little village northwest of here, bordered on one side by Pentwater Lake and on another by Lake Michigan. But we had all day, and we really cared more about along-the-way than about getting-there. After driving through forests and rolling farmland, we came to Cherry Point Farm and Market and couldn't resist stopping. I'd heard about the farm—one of the oldest operating farms in Oceana County—and its lavender labyrinth. We could see from the road that the lavender was in bloom. We parked and headed straight for the field where the labyrinth winds around and around a raised, circular herb garden. Labyrinths date back to ancient times and have long been used in garden designs. Unlike a maze, which offers bewildering choices of path and direction, a labyrinth typically has a single route to the center. Many people use labyrinths for meditative walking; the spiral pattern suggests a spiritual journey or one's path in life. Lavender, with its calming scent and medicinal properties, seems a perfect fit for the design. We didn't walk the labyrinth—my recovering foot was still in the boot, and I was avoiding uneven ground—but we did wander through the Stone Circle Herb Garden. The garden is designed in accordance with principles of sacred geometry, with a pattern of overlapping circles defining 36 herb beds. Bee balm, calendula and a full palette of other flowers were blooming, and the air was perfumed with minty-grassy-earthy scents.
The farm also hosts special events during summer--Tuesday Tea, with sweets and lavender tea, and fish boils on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday evenings. And on Sunday mornings, Flapjacks and Fruit breakfasts. Just writing this paragraphs makes me want to go back and sample the fare at one of those gatherings. Lunch left us satisfied, but not quite ready to leave. We strolled toward the market—where fresh cherries, cherry pie, cherry turnovers, cherry strudel, cherry jams and jellies and other goodies and gifts are sold—but we got sidetracked at the Word Garden. Scattered about the sunken rock garden are smooth stones painted with words. Visitors can arrange the word-rocks into evocative or humorous combinations. I guess it's not surprising that the farm has a Word Garden. Cherry Point owner Barbara E. Bull spends winter months writing books—one children's book, two historical tributes to her family farm, and three novels so far. Just one more manifestation of Cherry Point's imaginative spirit. I left there thinking about how a touch of imagination can elevate the ordinary and create something memorable. From the spiraling paths through lavender, to the serene design of the herb garden, to the lanterns on the Board Room tables, to the Word Garden, this wayside stop was a rich reward on a summer day. Where have you found imagination at play this summer? Cherry Point Farm and Market is at 9600 W. Buchanan Road, Shelby, Michigan, 1.5 miles south of Silver Lake on Scenic Drive (B15). Open daily from April through October. Current hours are 8am to 9pm (shorter after Labor Day).
I confess: Last week got a little not-busy-but-full (see my riff on that linguistic distinction from a few weeks ago), and my writing time got compressed to the point of near disappearance. I did somehow find time to get out and play with my cameras, though. So instead of inundating you with more words this week, I thought we'd take a break and look at pictures together. Less verbiage, more visuals. Here are some shots from my springtime rambles. I hope you enjoy them. WARNING: If you're not a fan of legless things that slither, skip photo #21 (right after the yellow lady slipper orchid) What are your favorite signs of spring?
Holidays: they're fun, they're festive, and sometimes they're just so much bother. The shopping, the cooking, the decorating, the entertaining, the cleaning up. Have you ever wished someone would designate a holiday just for loafing and doing whatever you please? Some folks in the northern Michigan village of Glen Arbor had that wish—and made it happen. Two years ago, Cherry Republic, a purveyor of sweet and savory cherry delicacies, created the mid-October holiday of Leaf Day. The idea, as the company announced in its 2014 mail order catalog, was "to celebrate the amazing colors of fall, and to take a day to reflect or enjoy the outdoors in the last of our good weather." On the designated day, Cherry Republic gave employees the day off and encouraged other employers to follow suit, offering a gift box of the company's goodies to the first 25 bosses who granted the holiday to their staffers. Really, would you expect any less of a business whose motto is "Life – Liberty – Beaches – Pie"? The idea was so popular within Cherry Republic, the company continued the tradition last year. Last October's Leaf Day was even more meaningful, as only a couple of months before, a sudden shear storm had destroyed tens of thousands of the area's magnificent trees.
Not one mentioned rushing through a mall, slaving over a stove or eating to excess. This year's Leaf Day is scheduled for October 17, but Ray and I got a sneak preview last week during a camping trip to Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, right in Cherry Republic's backyard. It was a little early for the glorious display of color we've seen there in other years, and in fact this fall has been so wet, we thought it might be more appropriate to celebrate Mushroom Day. But by the end of our five days of hiking, biking, loafing and yes, eating pie at Cherry Republic, tinges of scarlet, russet and gold had begun to color leaf tips, and we felt we'd adequately kicked off the season. Kicked off, but not capped off. With Leaf Day still ahead, we're looking forward to celebrating nature in our own back yard. And from the looks of the maples around our house, it'll be a grand celebration. Will you celebrate Leaf Day this year? Or will you come up with your own holiday? What will you celebrate, and how will you choose to celebrate it?
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Written from the heart,
from the heart of the woods Read the introduction to HeartWood here.
Available now!Author
Nan Sanders Pokerwinski, a former journalist, writes memoir and personal essays, makes collages and likes to play outside. She lives in West Michigan with her husband, Ray. Archives
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