This information was OCR text scanned from SDHS newsletter supplements. Binders of original paper copies are in the SDHC reference library.

One summer morning ill 1926, not long after the sun had streaked the eastern sky with the first warning light and brought the short July night to an end, three men who had been prompted to rise from their beds with the dawn, gathered together, as was the habit of such men, on rickety chairs in front of the ferry shanty. Red Bolton had come there not because he sought company or conversation, but because his bad stomach, and the snoring of Mrs. Bolton sent him roaming at each daybreak. Elmer Haselgren, known as Whistling Bill, whether it was early or late, was there due to a desire of company. The third man was Gubby Gleason, an ambitious and gregarious soul, a spinner of tall tales, who loved an audience. On a nearby bench lounged the ferryman, young Jim Sheridan, winding up the last stretch of his night shift. A gray pot of coffee seeped on the one burner kerosene stove. The talk was garrulous, in keeping with the hour and the mood of men who had not yet breakfasted. The ferryman was silent as befitted a fellow in the presence of his elders. This day a discussion grew about the qualities of various woods. It was agreed that there were few species of trees which produced anything as excellent for most purposes as the white pine. There was a lesser mutual point of view concerning certain types of oak, of cedar, mahogany and redwood. The short-comings of yellow pine, spruce and cypress were debated. Eventually speculations were offered over which was the most useless wood. "Now you take gumwood," said Gubby. "A more worthless type of stuff was never grooved. A feller gave me a batch of it one time and I figgered I might make out with it if l could get the job done and painted before a heavy dew fell on it. " He paused and shook his head as he contemplated this unforgivable error in judgment on his part. "Lordy, how it does warp!" Bill nodded supportive agreement and even Red nodded in the affirmative. "I was just about to nail up the last plank," Gubby continued, "when the dad-blasted piece slipped out of my hand and bounced into the river. Right there, I shoulda knowed enough to let her go but I fished her out and slung her up on the bank. Well, the sun was hot, yes sir, it was mighty hot. A minute or two later I took a look at her and I'll be dog-boned if l didn't see her quiver from end to end!" The speaker looked with speculation at his audience as if to measure credence, or the lack of it, in the faces around him. As usual, Bolton was expressionless, except he stroked his gut with a gnarled hand. The ferryman winced slightly. Whistling Bill scratched an area between his legs and leaned forward in eager anticipation of the denouncement of this tale. Satisfied with the reception, Gubby returned to his story. "Then I came right over by that plank and I watched her like a hawk. The next thing I see was that one of the edges was a startin' to curl. She curled up and up until that cussed board looked like a stripe on a barber pole." Red Bolton cleared his throat as if to speak, while a faint grimace crossed his face, but then he settled back in his chair without committing himself. Gubby's voice rose a bit, "And then - wham - she flopped clean over on her other side!" The ferryman turned away smiling and spat toward the river. "Your right, " said whistling Bill with satisfaction, "that gumwood ain't worth nothing." --- This tare was recorded by the ferryman Jim Sheridan. The others are real Saugatuck people. Gubby Gleason ran a beach launch for many years, Whistlin' Bill was well known as a downtown benchsitter, and Red Bolton, a Chicago gangster who eventually died in a broad daylight shootout in the city, had a cottage in Douglas, and his mother lived on the hill in Saugatuck.