What I Learned Along the Way

Looking back on more than three years of weekend posts, I realize I learned a great deal about my childhood town, my neighborhood, Pontiac, and Michigan. Some facts I collected while researching my topic, others came from the rest of you.

American leader Ralph Sockman states, “The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.”

Ghanian statesman says, “Knowledge is power. Information is liberating. Education is the premise of progress, in every society, in every family.”

The Heights family shares informative memories with love of our (former) home.

And what did I learn?

Among other things, the Clinton River is 83 miles long, from Springfield Township, north of Pontiac, to Lake St. Clair. Formed over 20,000 years ago from glaciers, which eventually melted to become rivers. It runs beneath Pontiac, but bubbles along the Heights and Rochester, pushing water wheels to run cider mills.

In the late 17th century, French explorers called the river Nottawasippee, Ojibwe for “like rattlesnakes.” British fur traders named it Huron River. On July 17, 1824 it was named after DeWitt Clinton, governor of New York (from 1817 to 1823).

Made Pontiac successful with mills that produced timber, flour, and women’s hats, while the lumber and mills created carriages, leading to cars, trucks, and buses. No wonder Pontiac has a Mill Street and Water Street.

Chief Pontiac (Obwandiyag) was chief of the Ottawa tribe, with a presence that commanded respect. He ruled tribes from Lake Superior to lower Mississippi, was fearless and ruthless, and believed that “these lakes, these woods and mountains were left to us by our ancestors. They are our inheritance and we will part with them to no one.”

He headed the Council of Three Tribes—Ottawa, Potawatomi, and Ojibwa—but was murdered in St. Louis and is reputed to be buried where the corner of Broadway and Walnut stand today (at a parking garage), with a plaque in his honor.

In spite of legends, he wasn’t buried on Apple Island in Orchard Lake, although he may have visited the island.

Grey Road in the Heights, between Adams and Auburn, was originally an Indian trail. An 1838 map shows its passage, probably a stagecoach route with stops.

Traverse City is the cherry capital of the world, with 90,000 tons produced annually, mainly Montmorency (tart) cherries. In the Heights, the Pixley Funeral Home, which I knew as the Harold Davis Funeral Home, was originally the Thatcher farm with 100 acres, including a cherry orchard. Explains the origin of Cherryland Street.

I grew up on Caroline Street, once part of Samuel J. Adams’ farm, which encompassed my neighborhood—the Oak Grove Subdivision—and the Auburn Heights School Subdivision. The Potbury’s home, next to Auburn Heights Elementary, had been the Adams’ farm tenant house.

The dead-end streets in my neighborhood were named for family—granddaughters (Caroline, Margaret), wife (Bessie), and himself (Henrydale)? (His son was John.)

Our Avondale fight song was written in 1936 by Paul Yoder, born in 1908, who composed more than 1,400 band pieces. His “Hail to the Varsity” became “Hail to old Avondale…” and I can still sing the words.

Michigan’s a land of glacier rocks, 200 million acres wide, from ice 10,000 years ago. No wonder our State has more stone varieties than anywhere else in the world. School rock collections were a study in ancient history with Petoskey stones, limestone, pudding stone, and quartz.

When we carried stones home from vacation, or dug them out of our yards, we were holding sedimentary rock, prehistoric coral fossils, and minerals from ancient glaciers.

These are only a scattering of facts I learned along the way. Michigan and our hometown of Auburn Heights (Hills) holds many more surprises, lessons, and wonders.

As the State of Michigan website promises, “The state of Michigan is blessed with the riches of unspoiled nature: the nation's longest freshwater coastline, lakes that feel like oceans, golden beaches, an abundance of fresh produce straight from the farm, glorious sunrises and sunsets and endless opportunities for living, working and playing.”

And that doesn’t include our local history and memories.

Now, this is a satisfactory way to enjoy history.

Our history.