Mark Wilcox

I’ve heard it said that the most exciting thing about living in a small town, is watching the grass grow. Well, I grew up in a small Upper Peninsula town, and for entertainment, we didn’t watch grass grow … we liked to watch it burn!

I grew up in Rock Michigan, pretty much smack dad in the UP. About 42 miles south of Marquette and about 30 miles north of Escanaba. Pretty much in the center east to west as well. We didn’t have cable, a movie theatre, a mall or much of anything when I was a kid in the 60s. We had two stores, Larson Brothers and the Rock Co-op. On the “business strip” there was a gas station, a small restaurant (that my parents would own when I was in my late 20s) one of the stores and Cliff’s Barber Shop.

When I was a kid, everything closed at 5 p.m. except the restaurant and bars which stayed open later and were the only things open on Sunday. Sounds pretty boring I know. But as kids we weren’t bored. I used to tell people about my town, “It’s a nice place to live … but I wouldn’t want to visit there.” We weren’t what you’d call a “tourist trap.”

But we always found something to do. And during this time of the year, one of coolest annual events to take place occurred … community grass burning! You see there really weren’t any streets or alleys in Rock. There was M-35 that ran from North to South along the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad tracks. Going out to the west was the “West Rock Road.” (We were a pretty creative bunch when it came to naming things.) The Osier road headed east from M-35 to US 41 ending just south of Trenary. The thing is, that behind nearly every row of houses lay big fields. And it was determined that each May, an evening would be set aside to burn the dried grass to make way for fresh grass. Not sure who picked the date as there wasn’t a designated grass burning chairperson. Funny thing is, nobody ever did anything with the fields. After they were burned and the new crop of waste high growth would come in, nbody cut it for hay or planted anything. They were just fields … pretty fertile wood tick plantations.

But to us kids, on that special day in May, those fields were our Disneyland. We’d hear the word around suppertime that tonight was THE night. We only had one firetruck in those days, and on grass burning night, not only were kids allowed to climb on the truck, but we could actually ride on it from fire to fire.

As I recall there were three main fields that were torched in one night. The first one, the biggest, was the one at my house. The field started right beyond our yard and went north about a quarter mile or so to where it was hemmed in by the railroad tracks on three sides, so there was no danger of it escaping an torching the near by forest.

It was exciting to watch the firemen start things off with torches and then stand at the ready lest things got out of hand … but they never did. All of us would pitch in with rakes and shovels to contain it. But for most of us we were just playing with the fire. (I did lose a couple of pairs of Red Ball Jets over the years, playing in the fire).

After the “Wilcox Fire” was contained, it was on to the next. There was a similar size field behind my best friend Perry’s house. Off we’d go, hanging on to the Maple Ridge Township Firetruck for dear life. The process would repeat itself till the last field was burned. I can’t remember if there were three or four. I know they’d burn the field next to Clarence Larson’s house, across the street from my friend Mary’s farm, but I’m not sure which others were on the annual agenda. And when it was over the entire town we went to sleep night enjoying the smell of charred grass. I still enjoy that smell and, to this day, it reminds me of spring.

Looking back, there were several things we did for entertainment in those days that probably seem so strange to folks, including my children and grandchildren today. We were a one-car family back then (something almost unheard of today). My dad worked second shift (3-11 p.m.) at a factory in Escanaba that made cranes. So often, we relied on my grandmother, who lived about a half mile away, for transportation on our adventures.

Evening entertainments included driving out to the town dump to look for bears, going to the fields outside of town to see deer (on some nights we’d count dozens). In the fall, we’d go to a local potato farm and pick potatoes that the harvester missed, usually near the ends of rows. They’d let the grown ups keep whatever they picked and even provided us with the big burlap sacks to take them home in. The farm would buy back the spuds that us kids picked for about a nickel a pound, which was pretty much a fortune to a 10 year-old in 1967. Picking things was a great way to spend an evening in our town. I’d go out picking with my grandmother depending on the season. We’d pick wild asparagus in the spring. I remember one time my grandmother and I were picking asparagus on the shoulder of the road west of town and we did pretty well. We encountered my friend Jody picking with her grandmother. The two matrons spoke briefly about how poorly the asparagus numbers were. Jody and I looked at each other knowing full well that these old and dear friends were lying through their teeth (or dentures as it were). And asparagus was just the beginning of the picking season. Next would be wild strawberries, then blueberries, raspberries and finally apples. There were always plenty of trees growing wild in the fields around town. No need to go to an orchard. Several evenings were spent helping my grandmother can what we picked so we could enjoy our pickings all year long. As I grew older, I was including in other group endeavors with the town’s men, such as dipping for smelt and suckers.

You see, when you live in a small town there was always something to do … and watching grass grow was never really an option.