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18 Sam Sam Titus came north from Ohio when her husband died in 1968. She began calling herself Sam because she liked the name. Once a model and owner of women’s clothing shops in Ohio and Texas, she took an interest in cultural activities and the northern Michigan outdoors. Sam and a woman friend named Herman Toms would get a state ‹rewood permit each fall, drive a pickup truck to the woods, and cut up a truckload of fallen timber by hand with a crosscut saw. Sam was asked to speak to a group of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders visiting the Pigeon River Country from their middle school in Cranbrook near Detroit. They got off their bus at a well site, and Sam stood quietly while a Shell Oil Company representative spoke ‹rst. He unfolded a series of ›owcharts and spread them on the hood of the bus. Sam recalls that everything about the man was loud, “even his clothes.” While he talked, the youngsters looked around and made square mud pies with their shoes. When it was Sam’s turn, the Pigeon’s forester, Ned Caveney, walked over and handed her a battery-operated megaphone. “I can’t use one of these,” she whispered. “Try,” Ned replied. Sam held the megaphone near an oil well, seven silver bracelets dangling from her arm, talking with a battery-ampli‹ed voice about the birds and animals that lived in the woods around them, about the clear waters and the ›owers. She raised her other arm, eight more silver bracelets dangling from it, pointed to the oil facilities, and asked the youngsters if they wanted to see more of that in the forest. She says their response was heartwarming . One girl even walked up to Sam, hugged her, looked up at her, and said, 218 “We love your forest, too.” Among the cards and notes she got from the pupils later was a poem from the girl to “The Lady of the Woods” decorated with drawings of trees and wildlife. o o o A Woodland Concert SAM TITUS It was a beautiful fall morning. I pushed the button to open the garage door. The car started right off, and I felt great. I backed out of the drive, pushed the button to close the garage door and ›icked on the radio. The announcer informed me I would hear Bach for the next several hours. Wonderful! I could turn on the back speakers and have the music as loud as I wished since I was driving to the forest alone. I hurried along the blacktop, knowing I wouldn’t see deer or elk until I was on the gravel road. Music I loved and bright color in the trees made living a privilege this morning. About one-half mile onto the gravel I thought I saw animals, so I slowed down. There was a sizable group. They were elk! I went as slow as my car would go. One good-sized bull and eight cows. They stood like statues; not even an ear ›icked. About forty feet from them, I stopped. Not a move. Then it struck me. They were hearing my loud Bach! I rolled down my window and slowly turned the radio as high as it would go. I prayed that a rattly old truck wouldn’t come barreling along and frighten my concert patrons. My feelings were bursting from me. I wanted the whole world to see what I was seeing and feel what I was feeling: those great animals listening. How were they hearing the sound I was hearing? Could they be pleased? They were not frightened. Not an animal moved as the announcer told us about the next thing we would hear. It was almost as if they expected the announcement. No trucks came. We stood in that place in this world and shared an experience. Finally the bull slowly walked into the trees, the cows following. o o o The road Sam describes as gravel has since been paved by the Otsego County Road Commission. Sam 219 ...

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