ship to come with us and meet the teacher, if the weather didnât delay him, or if someone didnât decide to quit and have to be officially terminated and paid off. On the day of my eighth-grade graduation, I remember we got lucky. Dad got in at seven a.m. and was able to get off right away. He had to be back by noon, but he got to see my new dress, hear my piano piece, and help Mom and me pick lilacs in the backyard for the punch table.
When he came to the Twin Ports, he entered the harbor through either the Duluth or Superior entry. The Duluth entry was the best, with its grand and picturesque Aerial Bridge. Especially when I was a child, I used to love to go down to the pier and watch his ship come in. Ideally, we would be there much earlierâin time to watch him break the horizon line. For a long time the boat seemed to barely move. After about a half hour, however, it began growing in size, approaching slowly but steadily, and finally, it came in fast.
âGet ready,â Mom would say. âHere he comes.â The tourists at the pier started runningâsome out to the lighthouse to watch the great ship enter the canalâwhile others sat right on the breakwater. Our favorite place was on the walkway by the marine museum. We watched proudly as the huge ship glided down the canal to tower above us. âLook up,â Mom would say, and there would be Dad. Heâd lift up the big black bullhorn with both hands and in a booming voice yell out, âAhoy, mates! Forty minutes to the dock.â And Iâd yell back, âAhoy, Papa!â
Whether in Duluth or Superior, the docks were all alike. We parked our car by the gatehouse, showed our passes to the guard, and picked our way along the rocky dirt road leading to the stairway that went down to the water. The docks were built to load on both sides, so there was a walkway through the middle. Ore trains rolling out to the ships rumbled on the tracks overhead. Theirbrakes screeched when they stopped, scaring the pigeons from their perches on the rafters above us. Even though shafts of light broke in from the outside, it was still dark in there, like in a dimly lit tunnel.
Dadâs ship, locking up from the lower lakes to the level of Lake Superior, at the Soo Locks, through which all ships traversing the lakes must pass
On either side of the walkway, there were surge holes. Dirty water slurped over the edges, splashing over our shoes and getting the cement wet. Way down at the end, we sometimes spotted a sailor who had just gotten off his ship to come ashore. It was like looking through the wrong end of the binoculars. The tiny figure got closer and closer, and bigger and bigger, until one of us had to step aside to let the other pass. Sometimes we could smell his aftershave!
Even if it wasnât raining, something always dripped, and there were always loud noises: spouts grinding up and down, whistles, and people yelling orders. If the ore had gotten wet in the opentrain cars, it wouldnât run into the hold. On the catwalks, men rhythmically pounded the chutes with long steel rods to break the ore loose. Kaboom-oom-oom. The sound echoed in waves off the steel girders.
The eighty-foot-high Ashland, Wisconsin, dock with train cars and dock-workers visible on the top. It was torn down beginning in 2012.
When I got scared, Mom took my hand and we began to march and sing: âBe kind to your fine feathered friends, da da da da da da da da â¦â Then, through the spaces between the columns, we began to see the ship: first the steering pole, then the forward anchor, then the pilothouse, then the winches, the hatches, and the ladder. Finally we heard my dad yelling, âHey! Here come my girls!â
To get aboard ship to see Dad, we had to climb the ladder. When I was young, my dad carried me up. He held me in the curve of his left arm, and with his right hand he grabbed and let go, grabbed and let go, lurching from rung to
When he came to the Twin Ports, he entered the harbor through either the Duluth or Superior entry. The Duluth entry was the best, with its grand and picturesque Aerial Bridge. Especially when I was a child, I used to love to go down to the pier and watch his ship come in. Ideally, we would be there much earlierâin time to watch him break the horizon line. For a long time the boat seemed to barely move. After about a half hour, however, it began growing in size, approaching slowly but steadily, and finally, it came in fast.
âGet ready,â Mom would say. âHere he comes.â The tourists at the pier started runningâsome out to the lighthouse to watch the great ship enter the canalâwhile others sat right on the breakwater. Our favorite place was on the walkway by the marine museum. We watched proudly as the huge ship glided down the canal to tower above us. âLook up,â Mom would say, and there would be Dad. Heâd lift up the big black bullhorn with both hands and in a booming voice yell out, âAhoy, mates! Forty minutes to the dock.â And Iâd yell back, âAhoy, Papa!â
Whether in Duluth or Superior, the docks were all alike. We parked our car by the gatehouse, showed our passes to the guard, and picked our way along the rocky dirt road leading to the stairway that went down to the water. The docks were built to load on both sides, so there was a walkway through the middle. Ore trains rolling out to the ships rumbled on the tracks overhead. Theirbrakes screeched when they stopped, scaring the pigeons from their perches on the rafters above us. Even though shafts of light broke in from the outside, it was still dark in there, like in a dimly lit tunnel.
Dadâs ship, locking up from the lower lakes to the level of Lake Superior, at the Soo Locks, through which all ships traversing the lakes must pass
On either side of the walkway, there were surge holes. Dirty water slurped over the edges, splashing over our shoes and getting the cement wet. Way down at the end, we sometimes spotted a sailor who had just gotten off his ship to come ashore. It was like looking through the wrong end of the binoculars. The tiny figure got closer and closer, and bigger and bigger, until one of us had to step aside to let the other pass. Sometimes we could smell his aftershave!
Even if it wasnât raining, something always dripped, and there were always loud noises: spouts grinding up and down, whistles, and people yelling orders. If the ore had gotten wet in the opentrain cars, it wouldnât run into the hold. On the catwalks, men rhythmically pounded the chutes with long steel rods to break the ore loose. Kaboom-oom-oom. The sound echoed in waves off the steel girders.
The eighty-foot-high Ashland, Wisconsin, dock with train cars and dock-workers visible on the top. It was torn down beginning in 2012.
When I got scared, Mom took my hand and we began to march and sing: âBe kind to your fine feathered friends, da da da da da da da da â¦â Then, through the spaces between the columns, we began to see the ship: first the steering pole, then the forward anchor, then the pilothouse, then the winches, the hatches, and the ladder. Finally we heard my dad yelling, âHey! Here come my girls!â
To get aboard ship to see Dad, we had to climb the ladder. When I was young, my dad carried me up. He held me in the curve of his left arm, and with his right hand he grabbed and let go, grabbed and let go, lurching from rung to
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