January 1955
- charliebunton
- Jan 26
- 5 min read
Snow drifted down in soft, unhurried flakes, each one catching the pale morning light as though the sky itself were scattering diamonds across Rogers City. Windows all over town were glazed with winter’s breath, delicate frost ferns curling outward like nature’s own lacework. Inside those warm homes, radios crackled to life, coffee percolators hissed, and families stirred beneath heavy quilts, waking to the first morning of 1955. The air smelled of woodsmoke and leftover pine from Christmas trees that still stood proudly in living rooms, their tinsel shimmering faintly in the dim dawn.
New Year’s Day always carried a certain hush—an unspoken promise that life might shift, even if only slightly. But this year, the promise was more than symbolic. The town waited, breath held, for the arrival of its first baby of the year. And just hours after the new sun rose, that promise was fulfilled. At the Rogers City Hospital, where the scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint sweetness of talcum powder, a newborn’s cry pierced the quiet halls. Little Elizabeth Marie Koseba entered the world with a determined wail, her tiny fists curled tight, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of life. Nurses exchanged smiles, and word spread quickly—Rogers City had its New Year’s baby.
Her parents, Leo and Mary Jo of Belknap, held her with the kind of awe that makes time slow down. Leo, a young Army private preparing for deployment to Germany, cradled his daughter as though memorizing the weight of her, the softness of her skin, the way her breath puffed gently against his uniform. He knew he would soon be oceans away, but fate had granted him this moment—this miracle—before duty called him elsewhere. The community responded in the way small towns do best: with open arms and generous hearts. Businesses and neighbors alike gathered gifts—hand‑knitted blankets, tiny booties, baskets of food, envelopes with handwritten notes. Each offering carried the warmth of a town that believed in celebrating life together, especially when the world felt uncertain.
And life, as always, continued to shift in other corners of Rogers City. After forty‑one years behind the counter of Plath’s Sanitary Market, Emil Plath Sr. stepped back from the business he had built with his own hands. His story was woven into the very fabric of the town. Born in Germany, he had learned the butcher’s trade in a place where craftsmanship was a matter of pride. When he immigrated to the United States in 1913, he brought that pride with him, opening his first shop near Westminster Park. The smell of smoked meats and fresh cuts soon became part of the town’s daily rhythm.
By 1916, he had built a modern market at the location residents still knew well. Even after the devastating fire of 1943 reduced it to ashes, Emil rebuilt—stronger, better, more determined. His smoked loin became a legend, its rich aroma drifting through the shop and out onto the street, drawing customers from near and far. In 1954 alone, over 50,000 pounds were shipped across all 48 states, carrying a taste of Rogers City to every corner of the nation. Now, the keys passed to his son, Emil Jr.—“Moe” to most. The younger Plath inherited not just a business, but a legacy of craftsmanship, community, and the unmistakable scent of hickory smoke that clung to the walls of the market. The town trusted him to carry it forward, and he would.
Elsewhere, change echoed through the halls of local government. Sheriff Leonard Sorgenfrei announced shifts in his department. Arthur Poch, the steady and dependable Under Sheriff for six years, retired to focus on his real estate work. His departure left a quiet gap—one of those absences you feel more than see. Ted Badgero of Onaway stepped into the role, bringing new energy, while Edward Langlois of the Rogers City Police Department rose to Deputy. The transitions felt like the turning of a page—familiar faces stepping aside, new ones stepping forward.
January also brought one of the community’s most anticipated traditions: the Calcite plant’s annual Safety Banquet. The Rogers City High School gymnasium buzzed with life as 263 employees—more than ever before—gathered beneath the glow of hanging lights. The aroma of a home‑cooked feast, lovingly prepared by the ladies of the Westminster Church Guild, filled the room. Plates clattered, laughter rose in warm waves, and the Bellaires of Michigan State University played lively tunes that mingled with the proud notes of the high school band.
The banquet honored more than safety records. It celebrated decades of dedication, recognizing employees who had given twenty‑five years or more to the plant. It also marked the promotions of several leaders—Christian Beukema, Joseph Valentin, Lewis Patterson, Norman Hoeft, and Herman Luebke—each stepping into roles that would shape the future of the Michigan Limestone Division and the Bradley Transportation Line. The applause that followed each announcement felt like a heartbeat—steady, strong, unified.
Yet not all news carried the same warmth. The Women’s Civic League launched a campaign to censor comic books, concerned by reports claiming they encouraged delinquency, violence, and disrespect. The Presque Isle County Library started adding seals of approval to “appropriate” books and began publishing lists of objectionable titles in the Presque Isle County Advance. Ironically, characters like Popeye, Tom and Jerry, and the Looney Tunes—beloved for their humor and antics—were deemed acceptable then, though modern eyes might see them differently. It was a reminder that every era has its anxieties, its attempts to protect children from the unknown.
But the month would close with a story that reminded everyone of the fragility—and resilience—of life. In the quiet hours of a winter night, 2½‑month‑old Mary Jane Gryniewicz struggled for breath, her tiny chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven gasps. At the Rogers City Hospital, Dr. Arthur Foley made a split‑second decision that would define him as a hero. With steady hands and unwavering focus, he created an incision in the infant’s throat and inserted a makeshift tube to keep her airway open. Then, holding that tube in place, he rode in an automobile through 130 miles of snow‑covered roads to Bay City, never once loosening his grip. Outside, the world was a hazy mix of white and shadow, the car’s engine cutting through the freezing night. Inside, the doctor’s breath clouded the glass as he leaned over the child, unwilling to give in to fear or exhaustion. By the time they arrived, Mary Jane was still hanging on—delicate, but determined.
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