I was about 6 years old, when we moved from East Jordan Michigan to Camp 18 (in Antrim County.) At the time my father (Harry Batterbee) was having a bout with the TB bug. They did not have the knowledge or facilities to care for each case as they do now, and it was largely up to the patient to cure himself by means of proper food, fresh air and exercise——in big doses.
In my father’s case the doctor advised a move to a farm as soon as possible. And that is how I found my self riding atop a load of furniture into a country such as I had never seen. Father and I had gone on ahead with the wagon-load of furniture, leaving my mother and my two younger brothers to come along later.
It was a short trip of 15 miles or so, but on the dirt roads of that time and behind a team of horses, which was a new experience for me, the ride seemed endless. The roads were rough and the load was heavy, so we often stopped to allow the horses a rest.
While it was light, I took turns running alongside the load and riding on the seat beside my father, but when night came I grew tired and Daddy made a place for me on top of the load. I curled up and watched the woods and the stars until I fell asleep, waking at irregular intervals and wondering if we would ever get there. That jolting rumbling ride is one of my clearest memories.
I have no recollection of our arrival for I was sound asleep, but I have often wondered how my father got me down off that load without waking me. The first thing I heard was my father talking to a couple of strange men.
As I roused still more, I saw that I was in a strange house. I lay on a pallet on the floor, and the strangeness was frightening. I began to whimper and call my father.
Father came at once and assured me that we were with friends. He pointed out that he had covered me with his coat. That coat was all the assurance I needed, and I snuggled under it, feeling as safe as a baby in its mother’s arms.
Perhaps this memory gave me my intense interest in the people who settled in Northern Michigan. Often I have stood and gazed at the remains of a log cabin or perhaps just a hollow in the ground with a few rotted timbers where the cellar has been.
And in my mind they would live again——children scampering in the sun and a mother standing in the doorway shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to see her husband at work in nearby woods or field——or perhaps she was watching for him to return from a journey to some far village.
But dreams must give way for reality, and however much we use our imaginations in connection with the everyday life of those who preceded us in this wonderful part of the country, at least we can say with a surety that (these early settlers) were working with a vision in mind——a vision of rich land converted to easy tillage and a people that were free from bondage and superstition.
With them as our inspiration and God as our help, we should be able to keep both our land and our freedom.
Written by my Aunt Rosie and preserved in her book,
Pioneer Potpourri
Check it out at http://www.dawncreations.net
Deep Woods Author 
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