ONLY THREE
 
by Glenn C. Furst
 
     Looking backward seventy—three years. "Impossible", I can hear people say, "no one can remember things that happened when they were only three years old." I think they can, if memories are dramatic enough. I was three years and four months old when my father died, and I'm sure I have a sketchy memory of that period.
 
     It seems to me that I can remember him walking around the walkway on the outside of the Lookout, singing songs (hymns, my sister Ethel told me), and calling to me as I played in the sand near our home.
 
     I definitely remember my mother urging me to run down the boardwalk to meet my father as he came home one early evening. How he picked me up, and set me on his shoulders as he carried me back to the house.
 
     I remember a night when it was cold, and my mother had gone away, and I was staying at aunt Hattie's house; and I couldn't understand why mother had gone away and left me. How I was put to bed by myself, and I was crying. I remember aunt Hattie coming over to me in her long nightie, and picking me up, and carrying me over to her bed and literally smothering my cries in the warmth of her breast. I remember the warmth and comfort that came to me, as the love and tenderness flowed from that wonderful woman as she crushed me to her breast. I can understand now how it must have come naturally, as memories flowed through her mind of her own little boy who, just a short period before, had lost his father too, in a drowning accident.
 
     I can remember being in a strange room a short time later that was filled with flowers; my whole family was there, and they were crying. I couldn't understand why, and why they didn't awaken my father. I was helpless, and didn't understand, so I hugged my mother's leg, and cried too. Perhaps that was the way God intended things to be. None of us ever seem to know what to do when those we love are in sorrow; just maybe a hug and the shedding of a few tears with them is the best answer. I'm sure the little arms around my mother's leg, and the fact that I was crying, awakened my mother to realize this wasn't the end of everything, and that there were other things to go on living for.
 
     I do not remember the winter that followed my father's death. I've been told that my uncle Dave (my father's brother), urged my mother to bury Dad in Charlevoix, and spend the rest of the winter there. He also advised her to buy a house in Charlevoix, so she could take in boarders as a way of earning a living. I'm sure this was wise advice, and a practical solution to a problem my mother was trying to solve. However, this was not meant to be, as my mother returned to the Island with her children, when school was out, to sell her home, and move her belongings to Charlevoix. It was during this period that my future step—father came into her life, and changed her plans. They were married in October of that year.
 
     Although I didn't realize it at the time, at the very moment that the justice of the peace said: "I now pronounce you man, and wife", me --- little Glenn —-- became related to almost everybody on the whole island!
 

 
MYSTERY
 
by Johanna M. de Kok
 
     Marie, a long-time South Manitou Island resident, loved company, and she also loved to play cards. This particular evening she had invited Beatrice, a pre—teen, blind girl, and an island summer resident, as well as my young twin daughters, Julie and Janet, and myself, to come over for some card games. We had an enjoyable evening, and all too soon eleven o'clock came around; time to go home. Bea lived just a short distance up the road from us, and we had promised Beatrice's father to return her home safely.
 
     Although Marie had lit the gaslight near the large table in her kitchen a little earlier than usual, none of us had consciously noticed the unusual darkness outside. The gleam of the gas lantern through the window gave us a little light, and with Boa in tow we did find our way along Marie's driveway and made it to the road which ran in front of the house.
 
     However, once on the road, the darkness became frightening. A dense fog had enveloped everything. No stars were visible; no outlines of buildings or trees were visible; even the low bushes alongside the road could not be distinguished. Th addition to causing intense darkness, the fog also muffled and distorted any sounds. The sound of the waves hitting the beach, to the east of us, appeared to be coming from the woods, to the west of us. The blasts from the crib's foghorn (North Manitou Shoal Light) appeared to be coming from straight above, instead of traveling across the water of the Bay.
 
     By the time we had reached the fork in the road which led north to our houses, a distance of no more than one hundred feet, our sense of direction had become severely distorted. We had swerved off the road at least five times; in the process trampling the juniper and bearberry bushes which grow alongside the road. The sharp branches cut into Bea's bare feet and legs, and we still had to travel close to a quarter of a mile. The prospect of additional cuts and bruises was not very appealing to any one of us.
 
     Bea, who never shied away from innovative ideas, suggested that she take the lead and guide us home. She thought the idea was hilarious, and we all had a good laugh. However, after some serious discussion we did take her up on her offer. That night, the twins and I could not see any better than Bea could, but Bea was experienced in traversing the road in the dark. With her bare feet she could "feel" the edge of the road, and she knew approximately the distances between the puddles, dips and large gravel stones.
 
     And so, the adventurous little girl marched ahead with confidence, holding hands with Julie, who was no more than a step behind her. In turn, Julie held on to Janet, and I made up the rear. While Bea knew the approximate distances between the large stones, occasionally she did stub a toe, immediately followed by Julie stubbing a toe as well. Shrieks of pain and laughter, and loud warnings to Janet and Mom to "watch out" would fill the foggy air. But after what seemed like an eternity, we all made it home without major scratches.
 
     The next morning, the National Park Service Ranger in charge of South Manitou, came to visit. The expression on his face was serious. "I've received several reports about strange noises which occurred during the night", he said. "The experience was pretty disturbing to some campers
 

 
in the Bay area, and to the people in the Marina/Restaurant across the road from you". The ranger himself, who lived in the former Coast Guard Station near Marie, had heard some muffled sounds just before he retired to bed. He went out on the porch to investigate, but the fog was so dense, he could not even see the railing. Besides, the sounds were trailing off in the distance, and he decided not to pursue an investigation.
 
     The proprietors at the Marina too had made an attempt to check out the weird noises which seemed to come simultaneously from the Bay and the woods opposite from it. Their flashlights could not penetrate the density of the foggy air, and they quickly retreated indoors, making sure they locked the doors behind them. They reported that they did not sleep very well that night.
 
     The campers in the Bay had not slept at all, or so they said. Loud laughter, crying sounds, shrieks of pain, were heard throughout the night around the campsite and beyond. When, around nidnight, a campgroup leader got out of his tent to check out the noises, a cold wind started blowing for just a few minutes. However, not a leaf on the trees was moving, but in an instant the wind extinguished the red hot coals of the campfire, which had been left burning from the marshmallow roast.
 
     "Didn't strange happenings wake you up last night?", the ranger asked. "No", we answered. We had slept like a log. The ranger shook his head in disbelief.
 
     I have been told that, to this day, the rangers on South Manitou Island receive reports from campers or boaters, who — especially on foggy nights — hear strange sounds which resemble laughter, shrieks of pain and shouts of "watch out Mom"!
 

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About the authors:
 
Glen C. Furst, who wrote "Only Three", was born on South Manitou Island in Lake Michigan shortly before World War I. He is the son of Martin Furst, who was also born on the Island, and the grandson of Oswald and Dorothea Beck Furst who came from Germany.
     Glen joined the U.S. Coast Guard, following in the footsteps of his father, who served in the, what was then called, the U.S. Life Saving Service. After his death his mother, Zelda, married Ernest Hutzler, Lighthouse Keeper on South Manitou. Ernest too was born on the Island. He was the son of George I. Hutzler, and grandson of Georg and Margaretha Hutzler, who came from Germany.
     From 1936—1941 Glen and his wife, Ethel Noonan Furst, lived on South Manitou with two young children. During World War II Glen served our country in the Pacific Ocean.
 
 
Johanna M. de Kok, writer of "Mystery", visited South Manitou Island, asa day visitor, in 1962. During subsequent years, she, her husband Anton and children rented cottages from Fred and Bea Burdick, and spent some vacations camping on the island as well.
     From 1975 through 1988 Johanna worked as a Volunteer in Park Service for Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, collecting artifacts, photographs and other historic information of South Manitou Island. With her assistance a Visitor Center and small museum were established on the island.