Dirt Farmer's Son. Terry A. Maurer
right here on the tracks.”
Mom said, “You can’t stop on the tracks!”
Dad stopped in the middle of the tracks anyway while the glaring light on the locomotive lit up the pickup. All the while, the steam engine’s whistle was warning us to move off the tracks. Mom said, “What are you doing?”
Dad answered, “The train won’t leave as long as the pickup is on the tracks. Boys, grab your suitcases and run with me to the depot!”
It was about forty yards away. That’s what we did, hollering, all the time, our goodbyes to Mom and Louie, who we presumed would not stay in the truck.
Grandma Cherven, Terry, and Pauline at HDC.
When we finally got to the station, the train was nearly full of passengers. Tony, Pat Jansen’s brother Charlie, and I finally boarded the midnight express. Pat Jansen was later to be Tony’s first girlfriend when he finished eighth grade at the military school and started his freshman year at Grayling High School in 1956. That same year Elvis Presley made a hit with “Heartbreak Hotel.” So Tony told me to take a seat by myself at the end of the first passenger car, and he would sit with the new kid, Jansen, in one of the first seats.
Terry Maurer, front row, second from right.
We were all showered and dressed up in our Sunday uniforms, looking like little soldiers. The shower was necessary because we had just finished helping Mom and Dad cut the heads off thirty to forty chickens and pluck all the feathers. Dad always had last-minute projects for Tony and me so as to get the final free labor out of us before returning to school. Now, back to finding my seat on the train, I proceeded to walk the length of the railroad car by myself, when coming to the end, I bumped into a very attractive young lady, probably eighteen to nineteen years old, talking to three or four of the train conductors who had time and were eager to visit with the young lady as the train was late departing (there was a truck on the track). Ignoring them, except for the enticing perfume, I squeezed by and took my seat alone. Now, I went to sleep almost immediately but woke up when we stopped in West Branch to pick up more passengers and more than likely drop off the cream cans for processing into butter at the local creamery. I thought I was in heaven, twelve-year-old heaven, because I found myself in the fragrant arms of the beautiful nineteen-year-old whom I had noticed as I took my seat.
I said to her, as we were face to face, that was the position I found myself, through no fault of my own, “How did you get into my seat?”
She answered in a low soft voice, “Well, when the train stopped in St. Helen, two nuns got on board, and they wanted to sit together, so I gave them my seat and came back to sit with you.”
I said, “I’m thirsty.”
The mirage beauty said, “I’ll get you a drink.”
So she got up, walked to the front of the train, got a paper cup of artesian water (at least it tasted like artesian water on that night), and brought it back to me. I asked her where she was going. She told me that she was a sophomore at Mary Grove College in Detroit and was returning back to school like me after the Christmas break.
She said, “Why don’t we get back into our position?”
I never wanted to go to sleep, but I did. And I didn’t want the train ride to end. But it did. Obviously, one remembers a train ride like that. I do remember the first popular song, which I really liked: It was “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” by Frankie Lyman.
Toward the end of my eighth-grade year at HDC, I began to think of my future. Most of my classmates were talking about where they would go to high school, places like Marmion, the military high school where Eugene Willis actually did go and did exceedingly well, Divine Child in Detroit, Assumption in Windsor, Canada, and of course Cooley and Denby. I am not sure when I thought about Holy Trinity for myself, but I do remember a missionary priest with a dramatic priestly habit, a wide cincture holding a large crucifix on the side, visiting our school in 1954, two years before my graduation. So I asked Father Bowers if he remembered the visit from the missionary priest from Alabama. He did and put me in touch with the religious order headquartered in Silver Springs, Maryland. It wasn’t long before I got a visit from Father Doherty, the vocation director for the order. I was accepted to the minor seminary in Alabama and would start as a freshman in the 1956 class in the fall.
The summer of 1956, before beginning seminary in Alabama, is when I saved someone from drowning for the second time. This time it was my best friend Floyd Millikin, who we all knew could not swim. Floyd’s neighbors, or rather his parents’, Roy and Virginia’s, neighbors, owned this little gas station with attached coffee and sandwich shop. A very common arrangement throughout Northern Michigan, and I believe throughout the country before the interstate highway system replaced those family businesses with McDonald’s, Burger King, and others along the expressways. It was I-75 that changed our part of the country and not for the better, according to my dad. Well, the fellow who owned the station had a cute, thirteen-old-year daughter named Holly who lived down Fletcher Road. Holly had a friend named Bridgette. Both girls would go waterskiing while their dad piloted his speed boat on Higgins Lake.
On this particular summer day, the girls invited Floyd, Tony, and me to go skiing with them. Off we went, putting in near the B&B Marina on Higgins Lake’s North Shore. Tony skied first, then I skied; all the while the two girls watched from the safety of the boat. Finally, Mr. Potts asked Floyd if he wanted to give it a try. I remember the last thing Floyd’s mom, Virginia, said as we left her doorway, “Remember, Floyd can’t swim, so he can’t ski.” Well, Floyd said he’d like a turn on the skis, and he did quite well getting up on the first attempt.
Now, I’m in the boat telling Mr. Potts, “Floyd can’t swim, so just go straight so that he won’t fall on the turn.” He went straight all right, straight out into the dark-blue water and past the drop-off. When I noticed the color of the water, I said to Mr. Potts, “Holy cow, you better get back to shallow water, but make a slow turn, because Floyd might fall, and he can’t swim and he doesn’t have a life jacket.” Just as soon as the turn started, Floyd fell off into Higgins Lake, past the drop-off where the water was easily one hundred feet deep.
Floyd and Tony in 1958.
Knowing Floyd couldn’t swim, I immediately jumped off the boat, swimming toward Floyd as fast as I could. He was kicking himself back to the surface for the second or third time when I got to him. Immediately he grabbed on to me like I was a sturdy red pine. Down we both went with Floyd grabbing my arms, making it impossible for me to swim or help keep Floyd’s head above water. Finally, I was ready to punch him in the mouth, hoping I’d knock him out (I heard once that this should be done). Then I heard Tony howling from the shallow waters to the screaming girls, “Throw them some seat cushions!” Mr. Potts had stalled his boat at least thirty yards from Floyd and me. He was pulling the starting rope repeatedly with no luck. It was the cushions and me dragging and talking to Floyd, “Hang on, hold on, we’re almost to the boat” that kept him from going down for good. I am sure Floyd coughed up at least two liters of Higgins Lake. I think he learned to swim when he became a Michigan state trooper.
Hall of the Divine Child, Catholic Military boarding school.
The last graduating class of Holy Trinity, Alabama 1960. Back row: left to right, Carl Seeba, David Lopata, Wayne Putnam, Bruce Cummings, Rich Schoessow, Marty Hendricson.