Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life

A dime at our neighborhood corner store created lessons in choice.

A nickel candy bar and penny candy? A bag of Squirrels (Squirrel Nut Zippers), Mary Janes, Bazooka bubble gum (with Bazooka Joe comic), and candy necklace? I’d consider options on our walk around the corner and up Squirrel Road.

My brother had no such quandary. Straight to the comic book spinner rack he went with his dime for a Superman comic book.

We read those cover to cover—the excitement of Superman outsmarting Lex Luthor, saving Jimmy Olson and Lois Lane, ripping open his suit to show his Superman costume, dealing with kryptonite.

And from the back covers, we wondered whether to waste money on sea monkeys (brine shrimp). Ads inside the comics included muscle-building products, money-making opportunities, and my favorite, X-Ray Vision glasses.

Of course, we bought and read other comics—Wendy the Good Little Witch, Caspar the Friendly Ghost, Archie, Richie Rich, Batman, Little Lulu...

But Superman was our favorite.

Ah, the Golden Age of Comic Books, from about 1938 with the first Action Comic Superman issue (thanks to Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster), through 1956 officially, but far longer than that for us and our corner store.

Siegel and Shuster tried to sell the Superman idea for newspaper comic strips, but were turned down until the comic book became popular. Their comic strip ran from 1939 to 1966.

Comic books were popular in WWII because they were cheap, portable, and patriotic. The same was true for us. Interesting note, in the 1940s, Captain Marvel outsold Superman.

We knew Felix the Cat and Little Lulu from the TV shows, and could sing the theme songs—“Felix the Cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat. Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks…” and “Little Lulu, Little Lulu, with freckles on her chin, always in and out of trouble, but mostly always in…”

And of course, the other version of our hero—Adventures of Superman TV show from the 1950s.

George Reeves was Superman for us. He was hesitant about agreeing to the TV role since, like many actors of the time, thought that few would watch the show. Bill Kennedy, a local Detroit celebrity, narrated the famous lines:

“Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound! (Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!)”

“Yes, it's Superman ... strange visitor from another planet, who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men! Superman ... who can change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in his bare hands, and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way! And now, another exciting episode in the Adventures of Superman!”

With the final scene of our hero standing before the waving American flag. Patriotic and exciting, made us proud to be American.

And our thank you to Kellogg’s who sponsored the program.

Superman was our hero. Heroes were honest, ethical, compassionate, incorruptible, and fought evil.

Seems we could use Superman again.

“Look! Up in the sky…”

When I was a child, Chief Pontiac was everywhere. Of course, I was born and grew up in Pontiac, until we moved to the Heights when I was nine.

The familiar painting by Jerry Farnsworth, a portrait artist, was commissioned by the Pontiac Daily Press for the tenth anniversary of Pontiac Motors. We saw it at LeBaron Elementary, and it was displayed in four other Pontiac schools, as well as banks and public buildings.

There was a gold-covered plaque of the Chief on the Pontiac Commercial & Savings Bank downtown, and Grandpa Schaffer banked at the Chief Pontiac Federal Credit Union which displayed a symbol of Pontiac’s namesake.

At the top of the Pontiac State Bank Building majestic Egyptian-looking figures looked out over the city, a tribute to Chief Pontiac’s Ottawa tribe.

The State Bank Building, at 15 stories (181) feet, was the tallest building in Oakland County for many years, built in 1929 to house the Pontiac State Bank (originally People’s State Bank). Listed as Art Deco style, to me it was a palace. And my first experience with money.

Mom and Dad had an account there, and since they did their shopping downtown Pontiac, would enter the awe-inspiring skyscraper for transactions.

In my memory, the hushed surroundings, marble, high ceilings, design, cashier stalls, and information area were worthy of royalty. I was convinced that the bank held all of Pontiac’s money, and only Fort Knox was greater, (where I believed you could exchange your silver certificate dollar for silver).

When we moved to the Heights in July 1959, my parents used the Pontiac State Bank branch at the corner of Auburn Road and South Squirrel, and later, the newer branch in the shopping center at South Boulevard and South Squirrel. That’s where I opened my first account.

In 1983 the Pontiac State Bank was bought by National Bank of Detroit, but before that, we all switched to the T&C Federal Credit Union across from St Joseph Mercy. Before the bank closed, I wrote my father a personal check for $1,000,000 dollars and no cents for his birthday. He kept it for years, long after the bank was gone.

Not only our bank vanished. The Pontiac State Bank Building became the Oakland Towne Center, and will soon be upgraded to 103 residential units and 23,000 square feet of commercial use, with a plan to keep the Art Deco and Italian Renaissance design.

Light years from our Saturday visits to the tranquil setting of high finance, where children were reminded to whisper.

From the elegance of marble and glass in Kresge’s, Neisner’s, and the State Bank Building, to the view of a tree-filled Pontiac from the 10th story of the Riker Building, and the dim interior and dark wood flooring (with the scary giant footprints) of Sim’s, where we bought our shoes and clothing, downtown Pontiac was part of our weekly life. And I haven’t even mentioned the library.

But none of that matched the magnificent sight of the Pontiac State Bank Building with Chief Pontiac’s tribe overseeing the city.

Some memories will never fade.

Some memories never should.

From northern Macomb County to Lake St. Clair, 83 miles of the Clinton River have been part of history—Michigan’s, Oakland County’s, and ours.

Named for New York Governor DeWitt Clinton (1817-1823), the river was formed from wetlands and coldwater branches in Oakland County, with lakes formed by dams. Beginning in Macomb County, the north and middle branches meet the main branch in Oakland County (where Clinton Township earned its name in 1824) and flow into Lake St. Clair in Harrison Township.

When I was a child living in the Heights, the river was polluted. Fertilizer leaked into creeks and groundwater. Stormwater collected trash and oil, and industries dumped waste into the river. By 1960 a scientific survey discovered no living fish in the river between Pontiac and Lake St. Clair.

In 1972 the Clinton Watershed Council was formed to clean the river—drains, wetlands, lakes, and streams. Cleanup has been an ongoing effort, but by 2020, all restoration projects were completed with annual events held to maintain the river’s purity. At least 84 species of fish live in the Clinton River today.

In 1821, at the corner of Auburn Road and Squirrel Road, Aaron Webster settled on the Clinton River and built a sawmill and grist mill to attract more settlers. By 1826, roads had been created and Auburn was born.

Our town went from Auburn to Amy to Auburn Heights to Auburn Hills, but the Clinton River, which began our community, continues to flow under the same name (although the Ojibwe tribe called the river Nottawasippee, “like rattlesnakes,” possibly because of the twists and turns).

The Clinton River was the site of boyhood fishing, crayfish watching, wading, and dangerous currents in my childhood. We bought cider and doughnuts every fall at Paint Creek, and crossed Dequindre Road to stand on the banks of the Clinton River, which powered the cider mill wheel, to watch the water flow beneath the bridge.

In the Heights, we played or dreamed on the banks of that river as it wound past the junior high into town, and north into the woods and neighborhoods south of Oakland University, near Adams Road, and into Rochester.

By that time, we kids were amazed to learn that the river went underground in Pontiac, beneath Telegraph Road, in culverts 30 feet below street level because of flooding in earlier years.

The Clinton River flows under roads, under bridges, into lakes and marshes on its way to Lake St. Clair, part of the Great Lakes system.

In Auburn Hills, a park and river trail have been created to enjoy the view of water, woods, and countryside. The Clinton River Trail is 16 miles long, owned and maintained by five cities—Sylvan Lake, Pontiac, Auburn Hills, Rochester Hills, and Rochester. I’d be planning picnics and lazy days along the river if I still lived there.

The Nile, longest river on our planet at 4,132 miles, flows north through eastern Africa to the Mediterranean Sea, the source for ancient Egypt’s civilization with fertile soil, irrigation, and transportation.

The Amazon River in South American at 4,000 miles has the largest drainage system in the world, reaching from the Andes Mountains (within 100 miles of the Pacific) to the northeastern coast of Brazil in the Atlantic.

Two of Earth’s most majestic rivers touched my imagination over the years, but I still recall watching the clear water of the Clinton, past the Second Woods, downtown in the Heights, near Adams Road, and in Rochester, at the park as well as the cider mill.

A stream that invited wading and fishing and daydreaming.

Parts may freeze on the coldest winter days. Restoration efforts must continue to keep it healthy. Parks and trail entice visitors and supporters.

The image I have is standing along the edge, listening to bubbling and rushing sounds, looking at crayfish and stones along its path, another proof of Michigan beauty.

“The Clinton River: Clean, Clear, Connected”

“Rediscover the Clinton River: A River Reborn”

“Clinton River: Your Gateway to Outdoor Adventures”

“Paddle the Clinton: Explore the Heart of Michigan”

“Experience the Clinton River: Recreation, Restoration, Relaxation”

“Clinton River Trail: Your Path to Nature”

I wish I was dabbling my feet in the water today, watching out for the tiny crayfish, still daydreaming.

Celebrating Independence Day was a community event in the Heights.

We started out with a morning parade—high school band marching in step with baton-and flag-twirling and stirring music; mounted deputies; firetruck; Jaycees; and local dignitaries riding in convertibles.

Afterward, we attended the commemoration at the cemetery before rushing home to help Mom pack for our picnic at the School Hills.

Dips, valleys, ridges, slopes—the School Hills hosted sledding in the wintertime and bold bicyclists during summer vacation, from the easy slopes (for me) to “Dead Man’s Hill,” which we believed had caused the death of at least one child, especially with the tree at the bottom of one steep hill.

Across Squirrel Road from Auburn Heights Elementary, between Church’s Lumber and the Silkwood’s delectable house, the School Hills were the gathering point for the community on the Fourth of July. For our family, it was less than a half-mile walk from Caroline Street. Mom packed sandwiches, cookies, drinks, and a blanket in our Radio Flyer wagon. We wanted to arrive early enough to pick the best spot for viewing fireworks from a flat hilltop, far enough away from the firemen’s reserved area, yet close enough to watch the shed-burning demonstration.

Any family with an unwanted shack, woodshed, or outhouse could donate it to the Fire Department for the annual conflagration. The shed would be set on fire with flames shooting to the sky, and the firemen put it out with immense water pressure from heavy hoses. What remained were wet ashes. One year Mom and Dad donated the outhouse in our backyard, our moment of neighborhood fame.

There must have been other activities to keep us occupied until dusk when the fireworks were unpacked and prepared, but I remember hot afternoons with children running and screeching, begging for more sparklers, and adults gossiping, with more families arriving until the sky darkened.

Dad was a volunteer fireman, so he was involved with preparation, shed blaze and dousing. In the dark, as each tiny flare lit the firework canister and darted away, I wondered if it was Dad.

Occasionally, sparks from the fireworks hit the grass and started burning, and every boy within reach darted toward the exhilarating sight. Our fire department managed, in spite of exciting possibilities, to prevent the flames from spreading.

To my young eyes, all fireworks were spectacular. The most intricate pyrotechnics were the golden shimmering ones, as wide as the sky over the School Hills with the last sparkling lights near the ground before sizzling to nothing. I was convinced that the loud, bright explosions were duds, but they were intentional. To add thrills, large, round aerial shells exploded high over the colors to create powerful booms.

Black powder (potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulfur), chemical pellets (metal salts) for colors and effects, and a fuse, contained in cardboard, propelled into the air and ignited to explode and scatter colorful light patterns were the Fourth of July to me.

Invented in ancient China, the first firecrackers were exploding bamboo stalks tossed into fires, but after 600 A.D. gunpower was used for the same kind of fireworks we saw over the School Hills.

The grand finale was a constant detonation of every kind and color of blasting light, followed by the framework of our American flag, lit and glowing while our National Anthem played to applause. Children were gathered up, blankets and trash collected, and back home we went, reliving our favorite displays.

No matter how young we were, we understood the reason for the holiday, and the sense of national pride was never stronger than in our small, united community.

"It will be celebrated with pomp and parade, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other." — John Adams

"Independence Day: freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed – else like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die." — Dwight D. Eisenhower

Happy Fourth of July to all of you, from 1776 through my childhood celebrations to however you honor it today.

The Lovin’ Spoonful had it right: “Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin' dirty and gritty. Been down, isn't it a pity? Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city. All around, people lookin' half dead, walkin' on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head…”

So, I’m inviting you on a walk down a wooded memory lane, green leaves from oaks, beech, maples, hickory shading us. Sunlight slanting through the branches in early evening. Curving road into the lush distance. A Michigan forest walk.

The location? Could be off Adams Road (in the olden days), or up north anywhere, even at the end of neighborhood streets.

Where I live now, flocks of ibises pick through lawns for bugs and grubs, the adults snow-white, the babies dark, the in-betweeners patchy. Tall, elegant sand hill cranes stroll in pairs, followed by two babies. Lizards dart in the heat, air sizzling by afternoon. Distant thunder rumbles, promising rain.

I miss real grass—perennial ryegrass, Kentucky bluegrass—and the sound of lawn mowers. Weeping willows over ponds and lakes. White birch surrounded by cinnamon ferns, which I called “deer ferns” as a child. Whenever I saw patches of white birch, I’d stare out the car window looking for does and fawns.

I miss the sound of robins singing. Lake Michigan beaches, from the inviting Lake Michigan sand to the crashing waves of Lake Superior. In my next life, I want to live in a lighthouse overlooking the wild inland sea of Lake Superior, with supplies delivered, electricity, a coffeemaker, and the internet, of course.

Picnicking along the Clinton River in the Heights or Rochester Hills, enjoying the parks around the clear river, and sharing the memory of cider and doughnuts from Yates Cider Mill.

Slowing down on Orchard Lake Road to take in the beauty of Apple Island, a green jewel in Orchard Lake, Orchard Lake Village. I know Chief Pontiac isn’t buried there, as I believed for years, but I’m certain his spirit resides over the historic island.

I remember my first sight of Kirk in the Hills on Long Lake Road in Bloomfield Hills. I was on my way to Cranbrook Science Museum and nearly drove off the road at the sight. The enormous limestone church with its majestic carillon bell tower looked as though it had been dropped from Scotland, a Gothic abbey.

I miss the first sound of spring peepers from the Second Woods. I miss dandelions and lilacs, cherries, and camping.

The first sign of a thunderstorm with leaves blowing backward and birds scattering. Dave would hurry to start fresh coffee so we could watch the storm from our front porch as it rolled along Caroline Street, heading east.

Wild tiger lilies, rhubarb, catnip, black walnuts, and what our son David and his friends called “honey honey pickers,” horse chestnuts with their weapon-like spikes.

Glimpses of the white deer at the edge of Meadowbrook. Dreaming of living in the gatehouse. Shopping at Meadowbrook Mall. And we haven’t even left summer for the fall festivals, School Hills sledding, Halloween flares and trick-or-treating between 6p and 7p.

Summer in the Heights and around Michigan is treat enough.

I hear thunder rumbling. Think I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee.

My favorite memories are no more than distant glimpses from a long-gone past, wisps of images in my mind.

Dad stopping at the Mobil station in the Heights for gas. Ding, ding as the car drove over the hose to announce a customer.

“A buck’s worth,” he’d say, and the attendant pumped gas, washed windows, and checked the oil.

We rode in used cars large enough to transport our growing family, and a dollar must have gone a lot farther in those early days. From the time we drove into the station, I’d stare up at the red Pegasus and dream of flying, picturing myself on his back, wondering if the wings were large enough to carry me.

Mobil was formed from a merger of Socony (Standard Oil Company) and Vacuum Oil in 1931, and adopted the flying red horse from Greek mythology in 1934, a symbol of speed and power.

That building still stands at 3191 Auburn Road, but my childhood gas station has been gone for years and is now a repair shop. It was once across the street from the Old Dutch Mill, located on Auburn Road between Churchill Road and the Clinton River. There'd been a grain mill on the river, but not this structure. "Mill" was also another name for tavern.

I inhaled with pleasure the smell of gasoline being pumped and couldn’t understand why everyone else didn’t agree with me.

I can see Dad ordering a block of ice from the Pontiac Ice Company on Paddock near the Clinton River. My memories don’t include the size of the warehouse, only the hiss as the thick, insulated door was opened to display huge blocks of ice separated by straw and sawdust.

One would be lugged to the back of our station wagon or the trunk, to be delivered to my great-grandmother’s house in Pontiac.

I can’t see her clearly, or her house, but the kitchen was dark. Dad would haul the ice to her ice box and slide it into the tray at the bottom.

The Pontiac Ice Company was on North Paddock near the Clinton River. Winter ice harvest was a booming business in those days. The Great Lakes was a preferred source for clear, hard ice, stored in ice houses and shipped in 300-pound blocks. The ice cakes Dad bought were 50-pound blocks, cut for ice boxes.

Another precious image is of Great-Grandma Miller pouring water into a hole to prime the pump after overnight freezes. She had a hand pump and a dry sink in her tiny kitchen, with a curtain around the framework to hide pipes. She’d let me try to pump, but until she got it flowing, it was too difficult.

Everything in Great-Grandma Miller’s cottage on Grant Street in Avon Township was compact. The small living room had once been a one-room house, with a lean-to kitchen and bedroom added, an outhouse in the backyard.

She had a Franklin stove in the living room corner, later converted to gas; a gas oven with an on-off dial; and a doll-sized china cupboard for her dishes and canned goods. I spent many days and night with her in that quiet, clock-ticking house with the faint aroma of lavender.

I have so many questions about those memories, but there’s no one left to ask, so I hold on to the images I have, triggered by a scent or picture or conversation.

The ice warehouse and great-grandma’s ice box have melted into the haze of the past, but Mobil still adds the red Pegasus to their logo.

Can’t get far on a “buck’s worth” of gas, anymore, though.

The local cemetery in the Heights was a shady, welcoming place when I was young. The gravestones I passed on my bike, back and forth to our downtown, were names I memorized without any awareness of who they were.

Aaron Webster (1775-1823), one of the Heights’ first settlers, who named our town Auburn, dedicated the property as a burial site.

Henry J Adams (1829-1907), who owned the farm that included streets named for his family.

Grover M Hill (1888-1918), Private First Class, 120th Machine Gun Battalion, 32nd Division, American Expeditionary Forces, killed in France during World War I.

He was not the only military hero buried in our cemetery, and I remember Memorial Day parades, followed by a somber celebration in the cemetery to mourn those who died serving our country, marking their gravesites with flags and honoring them with a 21-gun salute.

Memorial Day, our federal holiday to remember every deceased service man and woman.

“That Nation which respects and honors its dead, shall ever be respected and honored itself.” – Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Edmund B. Whitman, 1868

In 1868, Army Commander-in-Chief John Logan named May 30th as Declaration Day to honor Union soldiers who died in our Civil War, and Mary Ann Williams, an early proponent of the holiday, began the custom of adding flowers to the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers.

After the world wars, this day of remembrance, Memorial Day, honored all U.S. military who died in service of every war—wars WWI and II, Vietnam, Korean, Iraq, and Afghanistan. We show our respect and gratitude by visiting cemeteries, and placing flags and flowers on the graves of our U.S. military.

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields…

(In Flanders fields – John McCrae, poet, physician, Canadian Lt. Col. WWI)

Dr. McCrae wrote his memorable poem for a close friend who was killed in the fighting. Wild poppies were blooming between the wooden crosses marking those graves, which is why poppies are sold by veterans to honor Memorial Day and all who serve in the military.

I never knew my Uncle Earl. He was lost at sea in WWII when his plane was reported crashing into a mountain in New Guinea.

SCHAFFER, Earl J, Aviation Machinist’s Mate First Class, USN, from Michigan, location New Guinea, missing, date of loss June 19, 1944 (WW2), Manila American Cemetery.

May every life lost in service to our country be remembered with gratitude, and their lives be given meaning with every freedom we know today.

Mother’s Day is the perfect time to relive my favorite childhood memories of the Heights.

The Heights and Days Gone By…a magic time.

Because of Mom.

Mom and Dad taught with words, advice, consequences, and example. Loyalty. Dedication. Work ethic. Faith. Family. Love. Music. Education. Savoring life.

When I look back, I see vivid images of Mom working hard to raise six children. She baked, sewed, sang like Julie Andrews, attended every school PTA meeting, award ceremony, teacher meeting. Cooked, cleaned, managed laundry, and still found time to plant flowers and introduce us to the joys of reading, soundtracks, musicals, ballet, extended family, holidays.

But that doesn’t pass on those crisp memories.

Watching her hang laundry in the backyard, sheets and shirts flapping in the wind to absorb that sundried scent.

Ironing at night in the living room while we kids watched TV. Sprinkling the cotton clothes and maneuvering the iron into every crease, the hot smell of clean cotton drifting through the room, the click and hiss of the iron, the slap of hot metal against cloth.

Pulling freshly baked bread from the oven. We’d spread it with butter, or make toast for apple butter. Roasts on Sundays, eggs and bacon for weekend breakfasts, oatmeal or Cream of Wheat in the wintertime. Hot cocoa and Ovaltine after sledding. Halloween costumes. Goulash. Pancakes. Roast chicken. Cookies, rice pudding, cherry and rhubarb pies.

Playing the piano or musical records at night—My Fair Lady, Wizard of Oz, Mary Poppins, Carousel—while we sang along from our bedrooms.

She kept the house as clean and neat as possible with our active family, taught me how to scrub and sweep. Mowed the lawn, drove us to every doctor and dentist appointment. Attended Sunday Mass, learned to play the pipe organ, joined the choir. Made certain we had birthday cakes and gifts on the one day each year that was exclusively ours.

Created a tradition for the Christmas season that began the first Sunday of Advent and lasted through Epiphany with gifts, treats, prayers, decorations, music, and Christmas cookies.

Easter baskets. Fourth of July picnic and fireworks at the School Hills. Thanksgiving dinners. National Forest campgrounds, lake swimming, Saturdays at the library.

Mom grew up without any of these, and was determined that her children would be surrounded by family, by a mother’s love, by lives rich in ritual and delight. Every one of us basked in that attention and have tried to pass on the gifts she gave so freely.

For me, the Heights is more than community holiday traditions, more than school friends and seasonal changes. It’s also Caroline Street, our house, brothers and sisters, Dad.

And most of all, Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, in the Blessed Realm. You deserve that rest and celebration.

I miss you every day.

Come back with me a few years…nearly fifty…for a remembrance of life’s simple pleasures.

We’re in the living room of our house, close to the end of Henrydale Street, on a Saturday night. Toddler Anne and baby David are asleep, and Dave and I are settled for the evening in front of the TV.

And hungry.

Dave pulls out the menu for Mr. K’s Karry Out. I rub my hands together in delight—but what to order?

Deciding from Glen’s menu for Mr. K’s Karry Out was always a difficult choice. Charburger. Footlong, with or without chili. Shrimp dinner. Pizza.

The charburgers were thick and juicy, with melted cheese and condiments. Footlong buns were toasted and brushed with butter, and the hot dogs steamy. Dave often ordered the shrimp dinner, and any of the three came with those fries.

Or pizza?

Glen made the best pizza in Michigan. It was thick and cheesy enough to satisfy the two of us even if we ordered the small size.

Most of us in the Heights knew about Mr. K’s Karry Out. Many had jobs there in high school. Dave delivered pizzas, so he was familiar with every kind of customer, as well as the menu. He always tipped our deliverers well when we ordered.

Anytime I called to place an order, the background noise told how busy Glen’s kitchen was, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. I never ordered ice cream treats there, but saved his menu for dinner.

We got our soft serve ice cream at Leone’s on Auburn Road—again, the best in Michigan.

Every week there was an additional flavor besides chocolate, vanilla, and swirl. Even a small cone was satisfying and a medium filled you. Only once did I order a large, and the afternoon was so hot, my sister and I couldn’t lick fast enough to prevent ice cream from dripping down the cone and over our hands.

Of course, there was an extensive menu at Leone’s, too, but that was primarily our ice cream stop—when I was a child, and when my children were old enough to savor the anticipation of waiting in line, ordering, and enjoying our cones.

You can still drive to 477 Auburn Avenue in Pontiac from March to October, 1-9 p.m. for Leone’s ice cream, but Mr. K’s Karry Out lives only in our memories.

How I’d love a charburger and fries right now. If I pick up my phone and dial 852-2400, will I be able to order one of his pizzas?

Urban legends. Old wives’ tales.

All those sayings we’ve learned and live by, sometimes never questioning.

Superstition? Folklore? Based on something, no doubt.

The Old English for woman, wif, is how these “tales” earned their name. We are all familiar with urban legends, many of which I thought were true. Some sound humorous.

Picking up toads gives you warts.

Death comes in threes.

If you spill salt, sprinkle some over your left shoulder to avoid bad luck.

If your right hand itches, you’ll receive money. (Wish that was true.)

If your ears are red, someone’s talking about you.

Go outside with wet hair and you’ll get a cold.

Feed a cold, starve a fever.

If you swallow gum, it won’t dissolve.

If you say “Bloody Mary” three times into a mirror, she’ll come and get you.

Never open an umbrella in the house.

Candy at Halloween might be hiding razor blades or needles.

The Bermuda Triangle is dangerous for ships and planes.

Now there have been disappearances in that region, true, since the area is prone to sudden weather shifts and hurricanes. Planes have reported losing radio contact and become lost, probably crashed. Yet the Bermuda Triangle is not an official location, and other oceanic areas have been listed as more dangerous. Still, the legend continues.

We’ve all heard of Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster. In spite of pictures proven to be hoaxes, that legend reaches back to ancient times when the Picts carved stone pictures of a beast with flippers. In the 1930’s an Inverness newspaper reported a sighting of a whale-like creature causing churning in the loch which fed the legend.

Sadly, there has been no evidence of anything large enough to be considered a monster. Even the eels in the water would be too small to be Nessie. In 2003, BBC sponsored a search with 600 sonar beams and satellite tracking, but found nothing of any size to prove the myth.

Sigh, another myth busted.

My favorite urban legend concerns Chief Pontiac buried on Apple Island in Orchard Lake. The island is a jewel of green—mysterious and alluring from the shoreline.

Native Americans were drawn to the island centuries ago because it offered security and natural resources. They left artifacts from hunting. Tribal meetings were held there, including (probably) Chief Pontiac, which would account for his connection with the island.

But in 1769 he was murdered by a Peoria tribe member in Illinois, and buried in St. Louis because it was not acceptable for him to be buried in hostile territory. In 1900 a memorial plaque was set up at Walnut and South Broadway in St. Louis, although there’s doubt about his final resting place.

Unfortunately, possibilities don’t include Apple Island.

We still have one last urban legend to cling to—Bigfoot.

Sasquatch is a Native American name meaning “hairy man,” and in 1958 a letter was printed in the Humboldt Times concerning loggers in northern California who’d discovered enormous footprints. “Maybe we have a relative of the Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas,” reporter Andrew Genzoli wrote.

Bigfoot has enthusiastic followers, in spite of the lack of unquestionable evidence and bear reports. Unlike Loch Ness, the thick forests of North America and Canada can’t be scanned in detail enough to guarantee there’s no chance of Bigfoot’s reality.

So we have to have at least one last urban legend to enjoy.

But don’t cross your eyes—they’ll get stuck that way, right?