April 1955
- charliebunton
- 4 days ago
- 4 min read
Winds off Lake Huron carried the scent of spring—cold, clean, and edged with the promise of change. Out on the Great Lakes, the Str. Calcite pushed through the gray-blue water with the steady confidence of a vessel making history. Her steel hull hummed as she carried the very first load of high‑grade dolomite limestone from the brand‑new Cedarville Quarry, the cargo piled high and white as fresh‑cut marble. She had been chosen for this honor because she was the Bradley Line’s first self‑unloader, a ship built for progress. As she approached Port Dolomite, the newest raw‑material port on the lakes, the air filled with the deep, resonant blast of her whistle—an iron heartbeat announcing a new era for Michigan’s limestone coast.
Construction on both the port and the quarry had begun only two years earlier, in April of 1953. Now, with a production capacity of nearly three million tons a year, the place buzzed with the sound of loaders, conveyors, and men shouting over the clatter of stone. Dust hung in the air like a pale fog, settling on boots and jackets, marking everyone who worked there as part of something big.
Back in Rogers City, a different kind of buzz filled the air. Election season had folks gathering on porches and outside storefronts, chatting warmly about the town’s future. When the votes were tallied, Robert Crittendon reclaimed the mayor’s seat, having last served from 1950 to 1953, with a 664-422 win over incumbent Karl Vogelheim. Still, it seems Vogelheim’s political journey is far from finished.
Easter arrived with the smell of Plath's glazed ham and fresh baked bread drifting from kitchen windows and the rustle of wicker baskets filled with jellybeans and foil‑wrapped chocolates. Churches glowed with soft candlelight as families gathered in their Sunday best. At St. John Lutheran Church, joy rang especially bright. The congregation dedicated a new addition to their school—three fresh classrooms, an office, new restrooms, a stage, and auxiliary rooms ready to welcome the growing number of children whose laughter would soon echo through the halls.
In living rooms lit by the flicker of black‑and‑white televisions, hockey fans perched on the edges of their seats. The tension of Game 7 between the Detroit Red Wings and the Montreal Canadiens hung thick in the air. When the final buzzer sounded and Detroit emerged victorious—3 to 2—the cheers that erupted felt like they shook the state. Gordie Howe’s goal, Alex Delvecchio’s two, and Terry Sawchuk’s fearless goaltending became instant legend. People hugged, shouted, and pounded each other on the back, unaware that this triumph would be the last Stanley Cup the Wings would claim for decades.
Not all moments of the season were joyful. After years of waiting, Rogers City finally welcomed home Sgt. Raymond Tatro, the town’s only casualty of the Korean War. The crisp fold of the flag, the solemn notes of “Taps,” and the quiet sobs of loved ones carried through the cemetery air. Tatro had served bravely—first in World War II with the Eleventh Airborne Division, then in Korea with the 187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team, parachuting into danger to cut off retreating forces and rescue prisoners of war. He fell in the Battle of Yongju, and now, at last, he rested on home soil.
Life, however, has a way of balancing sorrow with grace. On Third Street, at the Rogers City Power Company’s rebuilding project, a disaster nearly unfolded. When the concrete floor collapsed, trapping worker Donald Sellke, the sound was like thunder. Dust billowed, men shouted, and for a moment the community held its breath. But volunteers—sailors, laborers, police officers, doctors—rushed in with a unity that felt almost instinctive. They braced the slab, pried it upward, and dug with bare hands and shovels until Sellke was freed, lowered onto a stretcher, and rushed to the Rogers City Hospital. Twenty minutes of fear ended in relief, the kind that leaves a community feeling closer than before.
And then, at last, came news that felt like sunlight breaking through years of cloud. The polio vaccine worked. Within days of the announcement, Dr. Edward Permenter traveled to Lansing to secure doses for northeast Michigan. At St. John Lutheran School, the auditorium filled with the soft murmur of children and the sharper scent of antiseptic as 554 first‑ and second‑graders rolled up their sleeves. Dr. Edward Arscott, Dr. Arthur Foley, and Dr. William Jackson moved from child to child with calm, practiced hands. Parents waited in the hallway, hope swelling in their chests. A second round would come in May, but already the air felt lighter—like the world had taken its first deep breath in years.
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